


On The Safest Ledge

by FancyKid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, Eventual Smut, F/M, He's the villain here, I don't ship Sansa and Petyr, I hope, Lemons, Meeting Again, Moments of past dubcon, Old Gods, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Sandor, Post ADWD, Post-Quiet Isle, Post-Winter, Slow Burn, Winterfell, You are now officially forewarned!, lemon juice, lemons for sure, not as slow as last time, sansan, the vale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 59,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyKid/pseuds/FancyKid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a ten year long Winter, Sandor Clegane emerges from the Quiet Isle. Against his better judgement, he finds himself in Winterfell to help with the rebuild. There he will once again meet Sansa Stark, a woman grown and drastically changed from the girl he had once known in King's Landing.</p><p>Sandor's POV takes place in the present, while Sansa's story will be told piece by piece through flashbacks.</p><p>This fic deals very much with past hurts, emotional scars, crippling guilt, and eventually healing and self-forgiveness. It will take some time for our girl to get there, but I am looking forward to the challenge of writing this. I hope some of you will be interested enough to trudge along with me! </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a song of the same name by Copeland.  
> (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CYl7nZX_6Vw)
> 
> "The sun burns a hole straight through your old flaws  
> If you look toward the sky even on your grayest night  
> Could you be happy now with the wind in your hair  
> And your eyes open wide and your feet going nowhere?"
> 
> Image generously created by my friend, http://mikeydoesit.co
> 
> Warning/Spoiler: Sansa POVs feature a non-graphic abusive relationship. Check the tags if you are so inclined. If you choose not to read her chapters, you will still get the same Sansan story through Sandor's eyes as he tries to figure her out in present time. 
> 
> Hope that makes sense, and I hope you enjoy!

Sandor threw the shovel down into the dirt and fell to his knees. His hands had gone numb an hour ago. The cramping of his overworked muscles was difficult to push through after weeks of the same movement over and over again – although, once he went numb, the action became mechanic. He looked at his shaking hands, blisters upon blisters and blood and dirt covering the pale and delicate skin of what had once been his strong and brutal hands. Sandor laughed out loud, not caring how mad he sounded. There was no one around who would care. No one around who hasn’t done the same.

_When’s the last time I had a bloody blister? Callouses built up over two decades of fighting, gone in just a couple of years._

He wouldn’t be surprised if he would start to crack up now. Now that winter was officially over. Now that the snow was gone. The sun had slowly worked its way back between the grey mass that had become the sky. The warmth had arrived first and had set to melting the snow that had buried them all for ten years. Ten years for the snow and ice to fall, pile on, build up around them and over them. They’d been forced to make tunnels to get between the different buildings. They lived like bloody ants in the ground for near a decade and it only took one month for every trace of the white shell around them to melt away. 

Living like that was not as hard as Sandor imagined it would be. Once people couldn’t access the Quiet Isle, to beg the brothers for help, it was easy to ration the abundance of crops they were able to grow and prepare for years of storage. Easier still when brothers started to die.

They hadn’t given the illness a name and they had no way of preventing it. It took hold of the joints in the body, locking toes, fingers, wrists into place. It spread slowly then to the elbows, shoulders, knees and hips, until the man was left paralyzed. It only affected a few at a time and took several weeks until it finally killed them. It was a slow death - uncomfortable and maddening to be sure - but not completely painful. It was as if the winter itself invaded their bones and set to freezing them one by one. Once the jaw locked, it was only another day until the heart stopped. _At least they didn’t have to starve to death_ , he always thought.

Through all of this, Sandor had still never found peace with the gods whom which he lived so closely. He never felt even remotely comfortable in the sept, all of the brothers turning into statues themselves as they silently prayed for hours on end.  More often than not, Sandor would kneel at the feet of the Stranger just to be alone. But as the years went on more and more brothers would join him in sullen silence. Even though Elder Brother had somehow gotten him to the sept every day, Sandor never had anything to pray for. He’d thought of _her_ early on, but he could never find the right words in his mind. He’d found himself a few times on his knees in front of the mother, the maiden, but still the words wouldn’t come. He’d wait and wait, until his knees went numb, until his leg felt like it was breaking all over again, until he hated his foolish self for even trying.

As for the illness, Sandor had simply refused to succumb to it - to become weak. There was not enough food to keep up his weight as he had done his whole life, but he would not lose his strength. He worked his body every day, whether it was rearranging sacks of grain or potatoes in storage or simply training his body in the confines of his own room, he had been able to find a different kind of strength in this new world. He had become lean, but not brittle.

Sandor was one of the lucky few. There were only about a third of them left now after the disease. The rest, he had worked to put in the ground himself. The dead had begun to thaw before the ground though. An idea was put forth that the bodies should be burned. Sandor adamantly refused. They would not waste precious firewood for it either. So Sandor buried them all. It took him weeks with how slow and weak his body was. But he worked all day and into the night, until he was finally finished. Brothers old and young. Brothers whom he never spoke to, never interacted with. Brothers who he had worked with, even laughed with at times. But there was only one man he ever considered a friend. And there he was, buried in the cold ground beneath him. 

Sandor wiped the blood on his robe and sat back on his heels to look at his work. Elder Brother was the only one that kept him sane when it felt like the walls themselves were closing in night after night. He was the only one who knew Sandor inside and out. He knew of the things, the people in his past life that Sandor didn’t even let himself think of anymore. He had been the strength of the whole isle, personally taking care of every dying man until their last breath. When he finally fell to it himself, Sandor didn’t want to believe it. Elder Brother didn’t seem surprised though – he knew it was only a matter of time. Sandor himself saw to his care, much to the man’s protestations. Elder Brother died in the night. Sandor took care in wrapping his body in a clean cloth, the way he’d done dozens of times before. In the morning he hefted his friend’s rigid body over his shoulders and carried him to the frozen storeroom where they kept the bodies.

It wasn’t until he closed the door behind him that he noticed the water dripping down the icicle on the roof. Sandor couldn’t help but wonder if things would be different, if the ice began to melt just a few weeks earlier. If the warmth that had come might have helped Elder brother heal. But he couldn’t let himself think of that anymore. He didn’t want to think of any of it.

“Done.” He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’m done.” He heard his own weak voice rasp. _Done with the Quite Isle. Done with this shit country. Done with this shit life._

Sandor limped his way down the hill and headed toward the river that used to be the marsh. He knelt by the cold water and washed his hands clean. He had been able to avoid his reflection over the years, but since the melt, it almost seemed to be following him everywhere. He didn’t back away soon enough after splashing his face with water and once again he found himself looking into the eyes that had once belonged to the Hound.

He didn’t try to hide his scars anymore. Anyone at the Quiet Isle had gotten used to it long ago. There was no one left to scare. The scars alone were his only recognizable feature. The man beneath them was a stranger. He was ghostly pale, like everyone else. No sunlight for ten years tended to do that to a man. His face had always been gaunt, but it was almost hollow now, too thin. He could tell from the hair that had been cut over the years that he was beginning to grey. He could see lack of color more prominently now, peppering through his lank strands, surrounding his hair line, what was left of it. He felt like laughing again, but he swallowed it back with a gulp when he saw his eyes.

There was no hatred there. No rage. But that had been taken away from him long ago. All that was left was a hollow sort of emptiness – a foggy grey haze. _So the snow swallowed up the Hound and this pathetic excuse for a man was all there is left to spit out._  

\--

Winter was over, and with it, the war. The isle had received the raven from King’s Landing shortly after the white one from the citadel had arrived. Queen Daenerys Targaryen was in her rightful place on the iron throne. And on either side were Aegon and Jon Targaryen. Lost sons of her late brother Rhaegar, if this Queen was to be believed. For Sandor, it was all too much to take in. He had no interest in whether these three saviors were true Targaryens. All that mattered was that Queen Daenerys had brought with her the light that stamped out the darkness looming over the Wall. But the wall was no more, thanks to her dragons, and since the army of undead creatures was gone it seemed as though there were no plans to rebuild. 

What went on in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms was of little consequence to Sandor. He didn’t care where he was going, so long as it was east and across the narrow sea. Someplace warm. He decided that wherever the next ship was sailing to, that’s where he could go. He was convinced he would find work easily enough, as a guard for some wealthy merchant or another. It made no matter. He would have enough time to think about it on the ship.

The closest port was Saltpans, but of course that was out of the question. Even if the little port was still up and running somehow, he wouldn’t come within a mile of it. He was sure that even ten years and a brutal winter wouldn’t let the people of the port town forget what ‘The Hound’ had done to them.

The idea of going south was quickly stashed away. Sandor didn’t like the thought of those unnatural fire breathing beasts flying anywhere over him to destroy the ominous foe beyond the Wall and he had no intention of stepping a foot in their direction. He could practically feel the heat of them just looking southward.

So off to the North it would be. There was another time – in another life - that he had thought of going far into the North. He’d offered to bring a girl. But it would do no good to think on past regrets - if even he could call it a regret. He didn’t know what he felt regretful about, the way he had asked her or the fact that she denied him. It turned out rejecting his offer was probably the smartest thing that girl had ever done. It was no use thinking on things that didn’t matter now. Doing so had brought him nothing but pain and turmoil over the years and the only one he could bring himself to discuss it with was buried under the earth by Sandor’s very own hands. _Don’t dig up old memories when no good will come of it._ White Harbor had to be up and running. If not, he would find out on his way. He made his decision quickly and he had no intention of waiting around any longer to think on it.

Elder Brother had told him where he had kept his own coin before he died. Sandor vehemently refused him, but the Elder Brother was insistent. He wanted Sandor to have what little he had to give in the world. It felt strange going into his hermit hole and to find the small sack where he said it would be. It felt even worse to open up the bag that wasn’t his. He found the coppers and few silver coins inside. It wasn’t much, but it should at least get him across the narrow sea.

He tucked into the supply of old clothes that were kept on the isle and found a simple woolen tunic and a worn-out doublet that would have been ill fitting in his former body. All Sandor had in terms of weaponry was a mere dagger fastened securely at his hip. _Better than nothing._ With that, he made his way to his only true friend left on the isle.

How he managed to keep Stranger alive during the Winter was beyond his comprehension. Other horses fell fast around him, but Stranger seemed to hold on well enough. Perhaps it was because there were no other horses to feel after a while, but even what was left still needed to be rationed. Sandor ran his hand over Stranger’s ribs and put thanks in knowing how much worse off the beast could have been. “We’ll put you right again, don’t you worry.” As soon as the snows had melted, Sandor had Stranger out and walking through the muddy grounds. He would take him out every day, but never tried the saddle on him until now. Thankfully, Stranger didn’t even take notice of it. As much weight as he lost, Sandor still wasn’t ready to try and mount him yet, but he knew he would need to at some point in their travels with his bum leg and all.

It only took him a day to prepare and to say goodbye to the men he had seen too bloody much of for a lifetime. They were kind and he cared for them, but after Elder Brother, he couldn’t bring himself to care enough about anything. Just one more night under the roof he had stared at for too long and too often. He was almost giddy with the thought of putting it all behind him.

\--

Sandor made sure to keep clear of Saltpans and the Inn at the Crossroads as he made his way North. He walked by Stranger’s side for as long as his leg would let him before giving himself a break and riding his stallion for a few hours at a time. Stranger seemed to enjoy it, getting his full of fresh new grass every day, having some purpose being alive in the world again. Sandor waited for the day he could say the same of himself.

Sandor passed more people on the road than he thought he would have. He would pass a lone stranger such as himself or a pair or small group a few times a day. The world was nothing like it was before the war. He was glad to have his dagger, but none of the skinny and pale strangers posed a threat. Most of them were headed south and he couldn’t blame them. The days were warm enough in the light of the sun, but the nights were cold as anything – not that he would have complained.

The first night he slept outside in the grass with the clear open sky above him was the strangest feeling. It almost felt like too much at once, staring up into the open black expanse of nothing. His heart raced and he sucked in breath so deeply that he started seeing white spots next to those of the stars in the sky. It felt like his heart was going to beat right out of his chest but he felt this way before – too many times.

After a month of not being able to see the sky under the snow, Sandor almost lost his mind in a closed-in panic. Elder Brother was there to get him through it, though. He had found him in his room with a broken chair and his pallet turned over. Elder Brother made him breathe deep and slow until he somehow got a grasp on his panic and rage.

In the open cold of the night air, Sandor gathered up his breath again and slowed his frantic heart. Being out in the open, having the night sky as a ceiling instead of an iced over tunnel of snow was the greatest feeling. He felt like he could truly breathe again.

The second night he got a better grip on himself and laid there in the silence, wrapped up against the cold in his cloak. He bent his arms behind his head and just let himself breathe easily. He filled up his lungs until his chest widened, until it felt like he would burst, before releasing his breath in a huff of air. For the first time in a decade he felt the foreign feeling of a true smile slip onto his face. A smile born out of a pure…happiness, for what he would later come to recognize as the first time since before he got his scars.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it thus far! I'll be posting the second chapter in another day or two. Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> P.S. Thank you to Jennilynn411 for showing me how to get that image in here ha!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn it's early. But I've got priorities.

Sandor spent a few weeks on the road in his sluggish pace before he came across an inn, if it could even be called that. The prospect of fresh or even just warm food was too good to pass up.  The thought of eating fresh meat made his stomach feel empty even though it was full enough with salt fish he had brought from the isle.

He couldn’t necessarily consider the hovel an inn. Perhaps it had been part of one at some point in time. Now it was only little more than a shack made of stone, but with a thatch roof that looked fairly new. It surely didn’t boast the space for beds, but even if it did, he wasn’t sure he would even like to spend another night inside so soon.

There was a quarter acre of land behind the building, a new log fence built hastily around it. In the distance he could see a man pulling carrots out of the ground, tossing them into a wheelbarrow he set beside him. They’d clearly gotten to it fast somehow. He saw no chickens or livestock and the naïve prospect of having fresh meat began to look bleak then. 

He wasn’t going to be alone inside. There were two sorry excuses for horses and one tired looking mule tied to posts out in front. Sandor tied Stranger as far away from the others as possible and limped his way in.

The room was small, smaller than it even looked from the outside, with only one trestle table with benches on either side. There was a haggard looking man seated on the edge, his head practically buried in a steaming pot of broth. At the other end, two skinny men sat across from one another. One grey haired and bearded, the other significantly younger with a mop of black curls atop his head. They were deep in conversation and didn’t take notice when Sandor took a seat at the middle of the table.

A woman came from what must have been the kitchen then, dropping down two bowls and a hearty loaf of bread for the two companions to his right. She came over to Sandor, her eyes widening at his face beneath his hood, but she made no mention of it like the others out on the road. The winter seemed to have make people more acceptable of horrible things. “I’ve got bread and some broth with vegetables. That’s all.” She told him. “And only if you’ve got the coin.”

Sandor went to his belt, grabbed a copper and tapped it on the table. “I’ll take whatever it is you have.”

He didn’t know how much she would expect for so little food, so he decided to start small, which was obviously a mistake. She raised her eyebrows, at the single coin he put on the table. Sandor groaned inwardly and she was appeased when he took out two more. The woman nodded and disappeared back to the kitchen again and Sandor lowered his hood.

“Where you headed?” 

Sandor turned his head to the right where the two men were watching him studiously. They too stared at his scars, but said nothing of it. He’d almost forgotten what it was like. After ten years in the same place, the men on the isle had gotten used to the ugliness he carried with him. What was new was the way these men still seemed eager to speak to him after they saw the left side of his face. He noticed it on the road as well. The few stragglers that he had passed had no reservations when it came to saying hello, even attempting to strike up a conversation. It seemed that given ten years alone - or stuck with the same old faces - no one truly minded speaking to someone like him. 

What surprised Sandor even more was that he himself didn’t mind speaking with the strangers. “North.” He told them simply.

“Oh are ya?” The grey haired man perked up. “Us too!” The young man across from him - a boy, really - nodded in eager agreement as his companion continued. “I’m Brandt. This is Alyn here.” He gestured to the scrawny young man. “He was just a boy when winter started. His father worked at my mill. We’re all that’s left.”

Sandor nodded and the man, Brandt, paused. He seemed to be waiting for a response, for Sandor to give a story of his own. But Sandor didn’t see the point. If the man wanted to talk, he could talk. Didn’t mean he needed to tell him his whole damned life story in return.

Brandt seemed to realize he wasn’t going to get the response he wanted, but he continued nonetheless. “Don’t know how we managed to make it, seeing as there’s nothing left of the mill now. So we decided we would take our chances and head up to Winterfell.”

Sandor felt his fist clench. “Winterfell? Why? Why would you go there?” The boy’s eyes widened and Sandor realized that he had nearly shouted. He lowered his shoulders and forced the rest of his body to relax as he waited for his answer. He couldn’t rationalize his reaction in his own mind, let alone explain it if they questioned him. 

“Aye, Winterfell.” And Brandt finally looked like he wished he didn’t engage in conversation with a madman, but he went on to explain anyway. “It’s a bloody mess that place, as word would have it. No one knew just how bad it was under the snows. They’d gotten right to it, once it finally melted. But that were two… three?” The boy nodded in conformation. “Nearly three months ago, just about. We heard word they need help to rebuild. Offering food and board - maybe even some coin if they can spare it - for any man who’s got hands and a will to use ‘em.”

“Winterfell aye?” A gravelly voice came from the other end of the table. “Just came from there I did.”

“Did you? Is it true then?” Brandt asked, his voice full of hope.

“Aye it’s true.” The haggard man answered proudly. “Plenty of food and work to be had.”

The boy - Alyn - piped up in a voice deeper than Sandor was expecting, his brow furrowed. “Why did you leave then?”

The man shrugged, seemingly indifferent, but Sandor could see the light in his eyes. He had a story to tell, and the man was all but chomping at the bit for what was probably his first chance to tell it. The woman came back then with a bowl of broth and a warm loaf of bread for him. Sandor was glad for the distraction. For some reason he didn’t feel the need to give the man the satisfaction of the attention he so desperately searched for. Sandor searched through his broth to find a couple of lonely chunks of potatoes and carrots and a scant amount of herbs as the man when on. 

“Not warming up quick enough up there for me. The days are warm if the suns out, but the nights are _cold_. And that Lady of theirs-“ From the corner of his eye, Sandor saw him give a shiver for effect. “Even colder she is.”

Sandor’s head perked up at that. _The Lady of Winterfell. Surely, it can’t be…_ He turned to Brandt and Alyn. “Who holds Winterfell now?”

“Well, it’s the Starks of course!” The lonely man answered for them. His chuckle turned into a phlegmy cough. “The wolves are back from the dead, it would seem.”

 _They’re not the only ones._ Sandor swallowed before he let himself ask. “And this Lady…is it Lady San - Sansa?” It felt so strange to speak her name after all of these years. His tongue tripped over the word, but he hoped no one would care to notice.

“Course it is!” Sandor felt the breath go out of him. _She’s alive. And well. And back in her home._ Sandor forced himself to keep his head in his bowl and eat, though suddenly doing so seemed impossible.

He didn’t know why the knowledge of a girl he barely knew so long ago would have such an effect on him. But a voice in the back of his head, a voice that sounded too much like Elder Brother, reminded him otherwise. 

Alyn took over the questioning as Sandor found himself frozen in thought. “And you’ve met her, talked to her?”

Sandor peeked up to watch the exchange. The man sat straight in his seat as he thought through his story. “Well, I’ve seen her around there, didn’t I?”

“But you never spoke to her.” Alyn skeptically confirmed.

The man looked thoughtful for a second. “Well, now that I think on it…” Sandor and the others waited as he made up his story in his mind. “I _did_ say hello to her once! Walked right by me, she did. I says ‘good evening m’lady’, always tried to be polite and proper-like. But when she turned to look at me-“ he gave another shiver. “Those Tully blue eyes freez’d right up to ice right then and there! I swear it! She looked right through me, she did. Felt like someone stepped on me grave!”

Sandor rolled his eyes and tucked back into his bowl. He’d heard enough of this conversation. He didn’t know the girl so he had no right to speculate against what the man said, but he couldn’t imagine he was talking about the same Sansa Stark that he had known in King’s Landing.

“Cold as the North wind blows she is.” The man finished off poetically. 

“Ahh…” Brandt waved a hand at the other man. “Winter’s made everyone hard.”

“And we’ve seemed to thaw out, to become happy again, to smile and find cheer where we can. But not this one.” The man shook his head shamefully.

“Well, if she’s offering food and coin, I won’t be deterred by an icy look.” Brandt sat up straight. “Tell us true, they still need more men? We’re not too late?”

The man sighed, reluctantly. “I think you’re showing up just in time, truth be told.”

Brandt’s brow furrowed. “Whys that?”

“No one wants to be there anymore! And it’s not just the wolves scaring them away! Too much that can’t be explained. Accidents. Shadows in the dark. The place is filled with ghosts it is!” Sandor and Alyn groaned simultaneously. “It’s true!” The man shouted. “If you don’t want to believe me, then that’s fine. You don’t got a clue of what happened after I left!”

Sandor had had enough. “And I’m sure we wouldn’t believe it if you told us. You might as well hold your tongue, my friend.” 

The man put his hands up in a mock-defensive position before finally turning away muttering something incomprehensible. Brandt raised his eyebrows at Sandor and he just shrugged in return before tucking back into his bowl. Suddenly the warmth rising from the bowl wasn’t enough to melt the chill that had built up inside of him.

Sandor knew he needn’t think about Winterfell. And he knew he _shouldn’t_ think about her. But ever since the man spoke, he couldn’t stop. It was years since he had done so - willingly at least. The simple fact was he didn’t _let_ himself think about her. 

He decided it would be best if he were to try to stop thinking of her. Elder Brother didn’t agree at first. He said he couldn’t imagine a man pushing such a huge part of who he was away, at which Sandor had scoffed. A huge part of his life? She was just a girl. That didn’t stop the odd dream here and there from waking him up in the middle of the night. He would hear her voice in his ear again, singing to him. The feather light touch of her hand on the whole side of his face - that was all.

There was only one terribly bizarre dream that he still couldn’t shake. It was several years ago, but he couldn’t help but remember as soon as he spoke her name out loud. He could hear her first. How he knew in his mind that the shuddering breaths and sniffling tears belonged to her was perplexing, but he knew it was her all the same. Her voice was so small, but so clear when she said his name.

He woke in a cold sweat with her voice reverberating in his ears. For days he tried to push it away, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do so on his own. He had to tell Elder Brother. The man listened intently as he always did. In the end he told Sandor that he shouldn’t worry or think on it too much. That it was just a dream, his memories twisting themselves to reveal something he thought that he might want. To have a chance to help her. To save her.  

Elder Brother insisted that it had probably stemmed from his refusal to think about her or speak about her again. But Sandor would not believe it. He kept on with his denial, even when the gentler dreams of her stirred into his mind as he shivered alone in the night.

Sandor let himself wonder now, for the first time in years, what had become of her. Obviously, she must have been tucked away safely somewhere if she was truly back at Winterfell with her pretty head intact. But how? Who could have, or simply would have, helped her?

Sandor shook his head, physically making himself push thoughts over her away. It would do no good to think on her. It would do no good to look into _any_ bit about his past. Least of all a girl whom he scared off any chance he had. No. That life was over. None of it mattered.

Suddenly the room felt all too small. He needed to be outside in the open air. Sandor forced himself to slurp down the remnants of his soup, picked up his meagre loaf of bread and pushed back the bench to leave.

Stranger lifted his head as Sandor walked out into the pleasantly open air. The horse raked at the gravel under his hooves, looking almost himself again, ready to get moving. Sandor wrapped his new bread carefully in his saddlebag when he heard the door open and close again behind him. He saw over his shoulder that it was Brandt and Alyn, getting back on the road themselves. Sandor kept to his business, checking Stranger’s hooves, but it was apparent that Brandt wasn’t done with him just yet.

“Well, you were going North you said? Where to?”

Sandor sighed. “White Harbor.” He mumbled to a piece of gravel he plucked from Stranger’s hoof.

“Where after that?”

“Essos. Pentos, might be.” Sandor shrugged, breathing in deeply, trying to hold his temper. “Somewhere warm.”

“Can’t say I blame you there.” Looked at him sideways. “But you don’t have much coin do you? How do you plan to make your passage?”

Sandor was starting to tire of the prying questions. He dropped Stranger’s leg and stood up straight. One more question and he was done. “What’s it to you?”

Brandt narrowed his eyes at him kindly, sizing him up. “Come to Winterfell with us.”

“…Why?”

“Why not? – that’s the real question.” Brandt crossed his arms and went on. “Food. Shelter. A warm straw bed to tuck yourself into at night. Plus coin. If you’re going as far north as White Harbor, you might go a little further. Save up while you can.”

He narrowed his eyes at the strange man. “Tell me - why have you taken such an interest in the plans of a stranger.”

Brandt shrugged and Sandor felt that they were finally reaching the point. “Alyn and I could use a friend on the road. Fella big as you are, no one would think twice about trying to steal from us and such.”

“There’s no one on the road that means any harm. Not since the sun broke through.” Even as he said it he knew it sounded ridiculous. The kindness populating this new world was not going to last forever.

“You and I both know that’s not true.” Brandt spoke the words from Sandor’s own mind. “People will soon remember what it is they hate so much about each other. Of that, I’m sure.”

Sandor ignored him, tightening the buckles on the reigns.

“Come with us. You’re in no rush. What have you got to lose?”

 _My head if she sees me and remembers me._ Sandor’s hands stilled on the saddle.

“What’s your name?” He hadn’t even notice that Brandt came up to stand next to him. 

He felt himself turn and look down into the man’s unassuming face. He couldn’t explain it to himself if he tried, but there was something about him, the crinkling at the corners of his eyes perhaps, that reminded Sandor of Elder Brother. His voice sounded so unlike his own when he finally told the man his name.

Brandt’s warm face brightened up into a smile. “Well, Sandor. What’ll it be? Are ya coming?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what he'll say! Hope y'all liked it. :) Posting early early tomorrow!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … and then he says no and boards a ship to Essos.
> 
>  
> 
> Just kidding…

Sandor didn’t want to admit it, but having companions on the road wasn’t all that bad. That they weren’t completely useless probably had an effect on his realization. Alyn could start a fire in seconds, he was glad to know, and Brandt was particularly good at trapping rabbits. Sandor was grateful the animals had already found a way to repopulate - the hot, fresh meat was just about the best thing he ever tasted. More often than not though, they chewed on the stale bread left from their meal together, Sandor’s salt fish and some rock-hard salt beef that Brandt and Alyn had on them. Sandor didn’t let himself think about how long ago the animal had died.

The threesome moved slowly, none of them wanting to put too much strain on the horses. During their travels, Sandor learned all about the mill from where they had come. The wife that Brandt had lost. His children. Alyn’s brother, his parents, though he understandably had little memory of them now. In return, Sandor told them about life on the Quiet Isle, reluctantly at first, but more freely as the days went on. It was not like him to speak so openly with strangers. He’d never done anything like it, not in either of his lives. The only time he had ever really talked about himself was with Elder Brother. Before him, there had only been her. But Sandor wasn’t telling Alyn and Brandt about being burned by the Mountain, about a red-headed girl who showed him kindness despite, or perhaps because of, his cruel treatment of her.

 As much as Sandor told them, never once did he say how he had ended up on the Quiet Isle, and he had no plan of doing so.

It was strange to put something akin to trust into people he didn’t know. To be able to let himself sleep knowing somehow that he wouldn’t be harmed. His old self would slit his own throat for his foolishness. 

They were on the road for a whole week before it even came up. Sandor settled in against a tree for his watch after Brandt had woken him. Alyn was snoring soundly. Brandt buried himself under a woolen blanket near the boy, but found no rest. Sandor saw his eyes regarding him through the dimming embers of the fire. 

“Out with it.” Sandor snapped at him, his voice raw from sleep.

Brandt took a deep breath and offered the question as if they had been talking about this for hours now. “Won’t she know you?”

Sandor blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Who?”

“Lady Sansa.” 

Sandor’s veins ignited inside of him, but he didn’t move. He could feel his heels digging into the dirt beneath him but the only sound he heard was Alyn’s contented snoring.

“Am I wrong?” Brandt pushed lackadaisically. 

“Why would she know me?” Sandor heard himself say, stupidly.

“You didn’t tell us _exactly_ who you were, but you didn’t lie either. I know who you are.” The man sat up on his elbows, but Sandor hadn’t moved an inch. “The fearsome Hound.” Brandt smiled, kindly even, though Sandor felt as though he was being teased.

He didn’t know how to react – what to say. So he repeated the words Elder Brother had told him countless times. “The Hound is dead.”

“As word was spread before the winter.” Brandt squinted at him. “The Hound may be dead, but you ser, are certainly alive.”

Sandor took a drink from his skin, wishing to all hell that it was filled with wine. What could the man possibly want? “The Hound wasn’t a ser. And neither am I.”

“But you _are_ Sandor Clegane.”

Sandor felt his teeth click together. “I am.” Brandt nodded, acknowledging the confirmation. “What are you going to do? Report me to the dragon queen?” 

“Nah.” Brandt raised his eyebrow. “Think it’d be better to have ya on my side.”

Sandor knew what he must be thinking. “I had nothing to do with the mess at Saltpans.” 

Brandt shook his head and answered calmly. “I didn’t say you did.”

They stared at each other through the embers for a moment until Brandt laid down on his back. He had thought it futile to come up with a fake name, but now he just felt like a fool for not even trying. It was strange to once again be known for that reputation he hadn’t had a part in creating. Sandor leaned his head against the tree behind him and looked at Alyn’s sleeping form, snoring like a bloody bear he was.

“Does the boy know?” Sandor heard himself ask.

“Alyn? No.” Brandt answered from the ground. “He was only five when winter closed in. I reckon he’s never even heard of the Hound. Besides, I have no plan on telling him.”

Sandor nodded. _If he knew the whole time, why would he want me with him? What does he really plan to do?_

“So you are brother of the Mountain. Former guard of King Joffrey.” Brandt looked over at him again. Sandor sighed heavily. “The King Joffrey who was betrothed to Sansa Stark?”

“Get to the point and be done with it man.”

“You asked why she would know you. Just a thought but, wouldn’t the King’s betrothed and his personal guard have crossed paths sometime in the years that they both spent in the capitol?” Sandor froze, he felt his eyes widen. “What do you think will happen when you meet her again?”

Sandor tried not to let himself think on the possibilities too often. When he did, he just pictured himself less a head. A long moment passed where he thought Brandt might have fallen asleep. His voice was quieter than he meant for it to be when he answered. “If the girl has turned as cold as that man said, she won’t turn her head toward anyone working so low beneath her.”

Brandt sniffed and seemed to think on it for a minute. “And what would happen if she did?”

“She wouldn’t remember me.” _A monster she had a few run ins with a decade ago. A night bathed in green flames. She probably blocked it all out, the nightmare he was, that her life was when she was a captive of the crown._

“But if she does-“

“She won’t.” Sandor cut him off. _Insufferable man._

Sandor stood and walked away into the trees. He knew he was right. He had to be. 

They didn’t talk about it again. 

—

It was another two weeks before the walls of Winterfell could be seen in the distance, the battered banners of House Stark were whipping above the turrets in the darkening sky. The night was windy and cold, the coldest yet since his journey began. Clouds covered the moon so thoroughly it almost looked like they were snowed in again. 

The southern gate was closed to the outside. They dismounted their horses when they got close enough. As they approached the gate, the guards up at the battlements wasted no time. “Who would enter the South gate?” One of them shouted down.

With a quick look to Brandt, they silently decided the older man should be doing the talking. He yelled up, kindly as he was wont to do. “Is it true there’s work need doing?”

The man was silent for a breath. “Aye.”

“Well, we’re three new recruits, if you would have us.”

There was a pause when they only sound was the wind trying to whip the hood off of Sandor’s head. But the guard nodded once and the welcoming sound of the gate being opened rang through the air. 

“Bring your horses to the stables.” The guard shouted down. “Ask for Norrey. He’ll tell you where to go.”

Sandor and Brandt silently regarded each other as they moved forward to enter into Winterfell, bringing their horses behind them. Sandor could feel his heart pulsing in his ears. It all seemed too easy, but he figured they must truly be desperate for help. For some reason he thought it would be more difficult than that. Perhaps because for the first time since he joined up with Brandt and Alyn, it felt like he was doing something he shouldn’t. 

The last time Sandor had entered the gates it was day, over a decade ago, and he was with the entire royal bloody family. The royal family all of whom were either dead, missing or held hostage in King’s Landing. But he didn’t feel the need to think about them. This was a different life. He wouldn’t be following a little shit around while he tortured everyone who got in his way.

He was just there to work. To build. And if he happened to see the little bird while he was there, he would leave her be. He had no plans of interfering with her life. But the possibility of seeing her again, to look at her just once more before he left, he couldn’t resist it. As much as he tried to rationalize it in his own mind the most he could come up with was that he wanted to make sure she was well.

There were times in the journey when he was ready to turn away, to head off and go to White Harbor as he originally planned, especially after his talk with Brandt. But that thought kept bringing him back. Last time he saw her he had left her alone on her bed. He used to hope to all hell that he was the worst thing she had encountered that night. The last time he heard of her, she had been married off to the Imp and spirited away from King’s Landing. Knowing that she was safe in her ancestral home was not enough. He had to be there, to see it for himself. 

Still, he felt like a fool. He would never admit any of his worries to anyone but himself, but what if she did see him? Surely there would be no one else there to recognize him, and the Hound was supposedly dead besides. Either way he was determined to avoid her gaze at all costs. How often would she come around to see how the repair work was coming along? There would be men to see over that for her, no doubt. 

No matter how many excuses Sandor put into his mind, a wretched twisted feeling in his gut got tighter and tighter every day. Now that they were finally passing through the gates, it felt like his insides were about to implode. 

The feeling only got worse as he remembered coming through the same gate on Stranger’s back, seeing his prince’s betrothed for the first time as she stood there with her family, the child that she was. But there was no welcoming party now. There was hardly any movement in the yard at all. The only light was provided by torches on the walls of the keep, the various buildings inside. Sandor led the way over to the left toward the stables, ignoring every nerve in his body telling him to turn and leave.

There were two scrawny stable boys who came to them right away, but Sandor still had to help the reluctant Stranger into his stall. 

“Don’t worry.” He murmured to the stallion. “You won’t be trapped in here like you were on the isle.”

From what Sandor could see from underneath his hood, the roof of the stable was fairly new. It must have been one of the first things she had done. He couldn’t help but notice the lack of horses. With the three more to take in, there was still a good third of the stable that remained empty.

Brandt sent one of the boys to fetch this Norrey. They gathered their things off of their mounts and still waited a good few minutes before the boy returned with a man trudging behind him. He was clearly a Northman, thick of beard and strong of brow. A sturdy man, even if his clothes hung a little far from his body. “You here for work?” He gruffed without any pretense of introductions.

Brandt could hardly muster out a confirmation before the man turned again and waved over his shoulder. They followed without question back into the yard. Sandor kept his head down, his hood like blinders to the rest of Winterfell that he knew he was not yet ready to take in. _She’s here._ She was probably tucked safe and deep inside of the great keep, but the knowledge that she was so close was another tug at the tightness in his gut.

Sandor was slower than the rest with his limp, but even though he trailed a little behind, he could still hear every word the man bellowed out into the night.  “It’s too late to start with anything now. I’ll show you where you’re staying in the guest house.” 

“We thank you very much for this kindness, ser.” Brandt started. “I assure you that we will all work hard to earn our keep.”

“Don’t need to thank me. I’m only the castellan.” The man stopped suddenly as they were nearly at the entrance of the guest house, and turned around, his face like he suddenly remembered something, and Sandor was finally able to catch up. “I’m Brandon Norrey. You’ll see to me in the mornings to see what needs doing.” The man let out a heavy breath, exhaustion and overwork coming off him in waves. “If you had come just a few weeks ago we would have turned you away, bursting at the seams with workers as we were.”

“We’d heard. What happened to all of them?” Brandt asked.

Norrey narrowed his brow. “Well they left, didn’t they?” He went to turn.

“Why did they all leave?” Alyn piped up. Sandor nudged him in the side with his elbow as Norrey stopped and turned back around looking even more fatigued. 

“Ask someone else should you feel the need. I don’t have the time.” Something seemed to catch his eye and as the man looked over Sandor’s shoulder, and his eyes brightened ever so slightly. “Ah. My Lord. My Lady.”

Sandor’s bones turned to ice. He still wore his hood, but turned around and quickly ducked his head as he slipped behind Alyn. He felt the hood slip further over his face and he knew that with the torchlight on the wall of the guest house behind him, his face would remain hidden.

“Good Evening Norrey.” He heard a bright, young man’s voice sound. “What do we have here?”

“New arrivals, my lord, to help with the rebuild.” 

Sandor let himself lift his chin to see the pair that stood before him. The firelight of the torches behind Sandor lit up the man’s face. The woman’s was hidden underneath a heavy hood of her own. His new lord was a handsome young man. A boy, more like. Not much older than Alyn. A strong jaw covered in the shadow of a beard, a dark pile of locks atop his head. Sandor wanted to say he looked familiar, but he knew he had never seen the man before. _Looks like the girl found her perfect knight after all_. Sandor felt like a fool. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? In all the ways he pictured her on his way North, she was only ever alone. But of course she would have been married off to someone. 

The man looked at his lady for a moment and he saw the pale blur of a face underneath the hood nod once. In encouragement? Permission? Either way, the man looked back over the group and spoke in a strong and clear voice. 

“Thank you all for endeavoring to help us. You will be well taken care of, so long as you remain and are in need of work.”

Sandor let himself look in the woman’s direction as he spoke. It had to be her under that hood. He took in the sight of the slight, but tall, form in front of him. He saw her gloved hands wrapped around her lord’s arm. It was strange, but it seemed as though she leaned all of her weight on him, as if he were the source of all of her strength. As if without him, she would be crumpled in a pile on the ground.

“Oh and please do join us for a meal in the great hall tonight.” The man finished generously. 

Brandt and Alyn murmured their thanks to ‘m’lord’, but Sandor wasn’t thinking about any damned meal. He just wanted to know if it was her. And as if there were any gods to answer his wishes, a sharp gust of wind whipped through the yard. Sandor was quick enough to hold onto his hood. The woman was not. In the time it took her to disentangle her arm from her husband’s Sandor soaked in every aspect of her face. 

It was her. No doubt about that. With her pointed chin raised, Sansa Stark let her blue eyes fall over the group. That her eyes were cold as ice was no lie, but that wasn’t all. It was as if she didn’t truly see them. Or that if she did, she just did not care enough to really look. But he didn’t think it was the look in her eyes that made him shiver.

His mind was somewhere else. He saw those blue eyes in the face of a child looking at him with pity for the first time, her hand on his shoulder. He saw her flailing feebly in his arms as he lifted her easily from her bed. Staring up at her father’s severed head, fresh red blood on her lip. Atop a horse, abandoned by her betrothed in the middle of a riot. Trembling on the stone floor of the throne room, clutching a white cloak to her naked chest. Green light washing over her pale face as he pressed her down onto her featherbed.

In all of his memories he pictured the face of a girl. Just a child who was warm, soft and gentle. It was evident in just one look that the woman in front of him was not that girl any longer.

It was clear, even draped in her heavy cloak, that she was thin as anything. Her face was gaunt, all sharp angles and as white as the snow that still clung to the highest turrets of the castle. There were dark bruise-like shadows underneath her eyes that made her look ghostly. There was no discerning her lips against the skin of her face, pale as they were. She looked frail, fragile, as she stood there out in the open cold. But the indifference she held in her eyes before she slipped her hood back on her copper head contradicted any thoughts of weakness. When Sandor found his breath again he was sure of one thing; this was not the same Sansa Stark he had once known. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten years prior to Sandor's arrival...

“Alayne!”

It just made no sense. Yesterday she was admiring the warmth in the air, the dust motes playing in the sun, thinking of the autumn wheat growing strong in the fields. This morning it was said to have been frozen over with the frost that came in the night. All of it broken, barren. Unsalvageable. The clouds were so thick that Alayne couldn’t even see the base of the Eyrie underneath them. 

“Alayne, let’s go!”

There was talk of canceling the tourney, but both she and Sweetrobin fought vehemently against it. All of these people had come for the sole purpose of competing in and watching the tourney. It was bitterly cold, and the people were understandably scared and caught of guard, but even the Lord Protector agreed - to cancel would be a mistake. They had to show that the Vale was strong and prepared for winter, even though there was absolutely no warning for it.

 _But perhaps_ , Alayne thought, _we should have canceled._

In her mind she was at another tourney, forever ago. She was just a girl sitting next to her father, watching a young knight from the Vale bleed to his sudden death. But that was another girl in another life. A different father. A different man from the Vale dead on the ground in front of her – one Alayne hadn’t been betrothed to.

“Alayne!” She looked up at the girl tugging at her arm. Myranda. “We need to get out of here!”

She looked down - Sweetrobin looked paler than normal and Alayne remembered herself. 

“Come, my lord. Let us go inside until this all gets sorted out.”

The last thing she saw was the yard in utter chaos. Her father hovering over the dead man on the ground. Her feet seemed to follow after her as Randa half dragged her and Lord Robert inside.

The previous night went better than she could have planned, or rather, better than her father could have planned. Petyr told her she must charm Ser Harrold. So charm him she did. She had charmed him so well that the man must not have noticed how many times his cup had been refilled.

His horse did trip in the end. He did fall on his face in his first tilt. Only, he had snapped his neck while he was at it. 

They got inside to Randa’s rooms and huddled close by the fire in the hearth. 

“Is this all because of the winter? Are we all going to die?” Sweetrobin asked with in a small, quaking voice.

“What? No, Sweetrobin, of course not.” She gathered the shuddering boy into her chest, but she knew that comfort would not be enough to calm him. “Myranda. Please find Maester Coleman.”

Soon, the little lord had his sweetsleep and was calm and still on her lap. She looked up at Randa.

“What does this mean? What is going to happen?”

For the first time since she had met her, the bold girl looked unsure as anyone else. “Well, the tourney is going to be canceled. Had it been anyone but Ser Harrold…”

Alayne knew what she meant. Had it been anyone other than Harry the Heir, she would still be outside, watching them clean up the blood and ready for the next tilt. If it were anyone else, Alayne wouldn’t feel so utterly helpless. They had a plan. Her father had made a plan. She was going to marry Harrold Hardyng. She was going to reveal… _no_. She couldn’t think of it. She was still Alayne Stone. And without Harry, she might always be. 

 _Unless…_ She looked back down at the boy in her lap, a stream of clear mucus running down his nose. _Unless this is my future._

Alayne had tried to stay out of the way for the rest of the day as Randa did what needed to be done as Lady of the keep, as Sweetrobin slept too deeply. It was after nightfall when Petyr finally came to her.

“Alayne.” She stood as he entered the room. His hands found her shoulders. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m fine.” She shrugged out of his embrace. “Can you tell me what’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know, sweetling.” He stroked his pointed beard, contemplatively. “I can’t imagine what we’re going to do. “

But there was a glint in his eye, one that Alayne knew she alone could see. _He is lying. He knows exactly what he is going to do._

_He always does._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo just a little smidgen for now. Sandor's and Sansa's POV's will be running on different timelines. So in a Sansa post if I say 1 year later I mean one year since the last time Sansa had a POV. Does that make sense? I mean, yeah... right?
> 
> Ok more tomorrow!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviewing for typos and what not on the run! Apologies, just in case, but here is another Sandor. :)

The next few minutes were a blur of voices and faces, none of it registering with Sandor. He kept his eye on Alyn’s back as they entered a building, an ocean crashing in his ears. It took him a moment to realize they were in the barracks, that there were pallets drawn up in a large, warm, open room. He dropped his things and slumped down on the first empty pallet he saw.

“Sam?”

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. His hands were bloody shaking. He turned them over and gripped his knees. 

He couldn’t understand what he was so afraid of. _She’s just a girl. And she didn’t even notice me. She won’t._

“Sam!”

He lifted his head up at the yell. It was Brandt at a pallet across the room from his. “Are you coming?”

Sandor looked around. There were half a dozen haggard looking men standing around or heading for the door. He didn’t remember meeting them. He didn’t even remember seeing them until just then.

He looked back at Brandt. “Where?”

Brandt shifted his eyes. “To eat?”

“Not hungry.”

Alyn, who had plopped down on the pallet next to him, gave Sandor a look. “Not hungry? Are you mad?“

“Alyn.” Brandt shook his head. “Let him be.”

The boy just shrugged and moved toward the door with the others. Sandor fell back heavily on his pallet. The straw mattress cushioned him well, and he would have been able to better appreciate it if not for the whirlwind coursing through his brain. 

Brandt stood over him. “You needed another name. I introduced you to them using Sam. First thing I thought of. You fine with that?”

Sandor looked up at him.

“I won’t use it if I don’t have to. But theres no way you can use your real name, is there?”

Sandor shook his head.

“I’ll bring you something.”

And then he was alone.

_What is happening to me?_

—

Later in the night, the men returned. He tried to be present in the room, but his mind was elsewhere, inside the keep, tucked away with the little bird. He chewed on the bread and cheese Brandt brought back for him, but he knew he wasn’t going to sleep all night.

Sandor was reviewing every moment of the past. Every moment he saw her, spoke to her, scared her, touched her. He hadn’t let himself think of her in so long and then she was right there, right in front of him. He couldn’t help the tidal wave of shameful memories that came rushing back.

She was a woman grown, but none of the gentleness of her girlhood seemed to remain. She was changed; of that much he was certain.

 _If thats the way she looks at strangers, what will she do if she sees me again?_ He didn’t take himself seriously when he thought of her taking his head, but now, he wasn't quite so sure she would. Still, he couldn’t fathom leaving. Not just yet.

“He’s not her husband.” Alyn peeped from the darkness next to him, disrupting his thoughts. The boy seemed to wait for a response. _What does he mean not her husband? Who in bloody hells can he be?_ Sandor considered not answering at all, but just hummed in return.

“The man at her side.” Alyn whispered. “It’s her brother. Lord Rickon Stark.”

“Thought he was killed by that traitor squid.”

Alyn’s voice perked up, pleased that he caught his interest. “Well it would appear not, seeing as I just watched him dine with his sister for an hour. I don't think he's any older than me.”

Her brother. He’d never thought of that. He hadn’t thought of her family at all. Until- _Fuck._

“Was there another girl with them? A…woman? Shorter. Dull brown hair. Long face?”

“Uh…not that I noticed. Why?”

Sandor breathed again. “No reason.”

He hadn’t thought of the wolf girl, his mind so focused on the little bird. He let out a sigh of relief, not feeling too guilty for it. She did leave him for dead. He didn’t know what might have happened to her, but he knew she had to be alive somewhere out in the world.

“She’s very pretty isn’t she?” Alyn whispered again. “Even if she does look quite ill.” Sandor felt the hair raise on the back of his neck. “How old do you think she might be? Thirty? One and thirty? Can’t be more than that.”

Sandor scoffed. “If you think she’s thirty, then how buggering old do you think I am?”

Alyn shifted in his pallet before he answered. “I don’t know…fifty?”

“Not just yet boy.” Sandor snorted. “And what do you care about her age? You planning on stealing her away?” 

Alyn stuttered something incoherent. 

“You shouldn’t think of her in that way.” Sandor went on. “She is the Lady of this house. Doesn’t need you following after her like some dumb pet.”

There was a moment of silence where Sandor could practically hear the boy’s cheeks redden. And then quietly, reluctantly – “You’re right.” He heard him turn over.

“Besides,” Sandor said to the darkness, “She’s only four and twenty.”

Alyn’s voice was bright, too loud. “How did you-“

“Never you mind. Go to sleep.”

When he finally drifted off to sleep himself, he dreamt of her. Standing on the walls of the red keep, looking down over the city on unsteady feet. He held his hand out for her to come to him, but she looked at him and she looked at him so hopelessly. He woke up before he could watch her fall.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Nearly everything needed to be rebuilt. Bolton did a shit job of patching up the roof of the the barracks keep, the stables, the kitchens. Had to see to those first, make sure they were strong enough.The roof of the Great Hall and gates were sturdy enough. Better than was to be expected.”

Norrey was taking them around the keep, showing them what was rebuilt, what still needed work.

“The family quarters are just finished as is the Maester’s turret. The others are working on rebuilding the bridge between the bell tower and the rookery. We get deliveries every couple of days, new wood, granite. Glass for the glass garden should be coming in any day now. Once it does, that will be a priority.”

Norrey turned to them outside the gates of the godswood. “That’s where you’ll be working. Cleaning up the old one.”

“Cleaning up the glass garden?” Brandt questioned. 

Norrey nodded. “I don’t think Bolton even touched it, just winter and all the snow that shattered it all. We haven’t had a chance to get to it, but now the ground is thawing, our borrowed stores from White Harbor are dwindling, we need to get to growing our own again.”

He showed them where it should all be disposed, gave them all gloves and two rickety wheelbarrows, and set them off. Sandor had only been to Winterfell once, and he never forayed into the godswood. Just looking at the place forced a chill up his spine. He knew it was where the Northerners went to speak to their trees. To him, it should be no different than stepping into the septry on the isle; he never truly felt like he belonged among the statues of the gods. But walking through the gates of the godswood was a different experience entirely. It felt like he was intruding, like he had no right to be there. Almost as if he were invading something private. Something totally and completely hers.

The only sound were their footsteps, a twittering bird here or there, the wheels of the barrows crunching over the decaying and compacted leaves over the ancient earth. There was no wind. There was no movement but for their own.

Alyn stopped when they got to the heart tree. He was in awe at the horrible, red face carved into the bark. Brandt knelt and stuck his hand in the steaming water of one of the pools in front of the ghastly tree.

Sandor didn’t want to look at the face, he didn’t want to feel the warmth of the water. He just felt like he was being watched. “Let’s get on.”

They continued on to the back end of the godswood and Sandor repressed a groan when he saw it.

“We have to clean this up? All of it?” Alyn whined. “Just us?”

Brandt slipped on his gloves and started picking his way around the mess. “That seems to be the way of it.”

Sandor could feel it, the heat of the earth underneath them. It was going to be hot. The work would be monotonous and draining. Surely it could be no worse than digging. He draped his cloak over a nearby tree and got to work.

It was a week of the same. Picking up the large shards of glass. The twisted and broken metal. Shattered and splintered wood. Dead and decayed trees and rotten flower boxes. They all sustained cuts here and there from the glass, but nothing that didn’t patch itself up in a day or two.

More often than not, it was Sandor who rolled it all away. His limp made it slow, but the others couldn’t heft the barrow along for such a long way. 

He only saw her few times, walking with her brother through the yard. He managed to stay hidden deep within his hood, even with the sweat dripping down his forehead. He could see it now, how much the Stark siblings looked alike. His hair had the same copper tint as hers, they shared the same Tully blue eyes, fine nose and pointed chin. Her brother always seemed to have a smile though, a kind face. The little bird only looked more irritable each time he saw her.

They weren’t ever alone though, he noticed another man striding behind them. Older than he was, but perhaps not by much. He had a sword at his hip. A guard. But if he was a guard for Rickon or the little bird, he could not say.

He tried to ignore the pit of vipers that acted up in his stomach each time he laid eyes on her, but it became more and more difficult with each passing glance. He was so curious to know what had happened to her, what might be wrong with her. She always held onto her brother, as she had that first night. They moved at a slow pace wherever they went. In the sunlight, it was apparent just how much more pale her complexion was in comparison with her brother. Sandor couldn’t help but wonder if she really might be ill.

He never let himself get a closer look though. He broke his fast in the mornings with the other men in the great hall. For some reason she did not eat with everyone else in the mornings, but Brandt claimed she did at night. They would bring him back enough food and Alyn stopped his questioning after a while. But Brandt knew he couldn’t risk the chance of being seen by her in the great hall.

There were about half a dozen children running around the keep at all times, or at least it seemed that way to Sandor. He never much liked children, but he couldn’t help feeling at least a little bit hopeful seeing them laugh and play their pointless games. It had been well over a decade since he’d seen children harbor such innocence, not having a care in the world.

It was one such occasion that he crossed paths with a pair of them.

It was early in the evening, the sky just beginning to darken as they finished their work for the day. Brandt and Alyn headed back toward the barracks keep while Sandor went to dispose of the last load of scrap. 

One of the little boys he’d often seen wasn’t looking where he was going. Sandor had to stop short to keep him from running right into the barrow full of glass.

“Watch yourself there.” Sandor called to him.

“Whoa.” The boy stalled right in front of the barrow, looked up. “You’re big.”

Another, older boy came up behind him as Sandor tried to think of what to do. He was never good at talking to children. Even with Joff, he only ever treated him like a small man. He never had a gentleness with him in the way others might. He cleared his throat. “You’re very small.”

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“Edmund.” The older one nudged his shoulder. Sandor realized they could see right up into his hood. “You can’t just ask people things like that.”

The small one, Edmund, ignored him. “Was it fire?”

“Of course it was fire, stupid.” The elder rolled his eyes and tried to make himself not look as interested as he clearly was.

“Was it dragonfire?” Edmund hopped up on his toes. “Was it Queen Daenerys? Was it Viserion?”

Sandor narrowed his eyes. “What’s a Viserion?”

“No, what am I thinking? It couldn’t have been Viserion. Uncle Jon wouldn’t have left him alive if he were an enemy, would he Siggi?”

Sandor straightened his spine. “Uncle Jon…”

The older boy, _Siggi?_ “King Jon Targaryen, he means. Our mother’s cousin.”

"Your mother…”

“Lady Sansa!” Edmund announced proudly.

Sandor stiffened. And he felt like a fool for not seeing it. They were brothers. The red in their hair. A smattering of freckles across the older’s fine nose, his eyes a familiar Tully blue – Stark grey like the wolf girl in the small one. _They are her sons._

“Do you know my mother?” Edmund asked.

Sandor blinked, a cold mask covering his face “No. Best be getting back to work.” He moved past them.

“Wait!” The smaller one started after him. “Who are you?”

“Edmund!” He didn’t look back, but he knew the older must have stopped him. “Come on, mother’s waiting.”

Sandor got a better grip on the handles, his palms sweating inside his gloves, and pushed through to finish his work. All he could think of was her boys running to tell the little bird of the large, burned man they’d met in the yard. _Her_ boys. Her sons. He couldn’t move fast enough as he dumped the scrap. He stowed the wheelbarrow away and walked as quickly as he could manage back to the barracks keep.

He burst through the door. “She has children.” Brandt was the first thing he saw as he caught him off guard, changing into cleaner clothes for dinner. “Two of them.” 

He started to pace the floor. _Children. Sons. She’s a mother. Gods, the thought of her making them. Fuck._ He froze. _With who? Who is their father?_

Brandt put his hands out and stepped toward him. “Sam, calm down.”

Sandor’s eyes widened. He turned. They weren’t alone. Another man was already there. _Colin? Was that his name?_

“You mean Lady Sansa?” Colin asked. “Aye. She’s got four.” 

 _Four._ Sandor didn’t care what the man thought of him. He needed answers. “I thought the lord was her brother.”

Colin raised his eyebrows. “He is, our good Lord Rickon. A great young man he is.” 

“Yes I know, but who is the girl– _Lady_ _Sansa_. Who is she married to? Who is her husband?” _It can’t still be the imp. Impossible. She flew away from him._

“Well, she’s not married any longer, is she?”

Sandor was ready to strangle the man. “ _I don’t know_. That’s why I’m asking!” He nearly roared. “The boys? Who is their father?”

“Her late husband, of course.”

“ _Late_ husband?” Brandt piped in. Alyn came up to them, his eyes alight with interest.

“Aye. That’s why so many people left, the way he died. Still gives me the shivers.”

“What…” Sandor stammered. Brandt put his hand on Sandor’s shoulder. “What are you talking about?” 

Colin looked at the three of them for a moment. “Better you don’t know.” Sandor had never really been too curious a man, but this was just too bloody strange. If he couldn’t get what happened out of anyone, he could at least know the name of the man who gave the little bird her children.

He shook Brandt’s hand off of his shoulder. “Bugger that. Tell me, man! Who was her husband?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses? Not like there are many options...
> 
> Answer tomorrow!!
> 
> Also, the interaction with the boys was one of the first things I wrote for this fic. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the shortest thing I've ever written. It just answers the question posed from yesterday. If you do not accept the answer to that question, I understand. Get ready for a rant at the end.

**Sansa - Tens years prior to Sandor's arrival at Winterfell**

 

He came to her early the next morning. His eyes were bright.

“Sansa?”

“Yes, father?”

Petyr’s mouth turned up at the corner and he shook his head. “Sansa.” 

It took a moment to realize what he had said. He must have been able to see the realization on her face. 

“How you have lied to me.” He tsk-ed his tongue at her as he sat down across from her. “You must truly have only been pretending to be my daughter, where I was here thinking you were actually starting to believe it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at how quickly you responded to a name that should be strange to you. _Sansa_.”

“Oh.”

“Oh is right.” He chuckled lightly under his breath and reached across the table to take her hand in his. “Don’t worry sweetling. I forgive you.” Sansa didn’t realize that she had apologized, but Petyr went on. “It makes no matter now anyway. It seems our plans are going to move forward, even without Harry.”

“What…what do you mean?

His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “We are going to make it be known who you really are.”

Sansa felt herself swallow. “Why?”

“Well, I can’t very well marry my own daughter now, can I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Yell at me. 
> 
> But hear this - There will only be two or three moments in Sansa’s chapters where things will be discussed semi-explicitly. For the good of the order, I ultimately consider coerced consent as non-con, but as I will not be going into specifics, I am merely labeling it as dub-con. I’m not the type to delve explicitly into these things, but everyone has their limits and I am going to be as sensitive as possible with that. I will ALWAYS give fair warning when anything remotely of that nature is coming about. I promise you.
> 
> As for Sansa having children before Sandor came along, I swear it is all going to work out alright. I’m not the type for tragic endings.
> 
> Please let me know if this makes sense. Because sometimes words and me... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's reaction...
> 
> The end bit is my favorite though.

_Littlefucker. Her husband. The father of her children._

“Lived over in the Vale for the winter.” Colin sniffed. 

The Vale. The Vale. He could have _walked_ there. 

He felt the breath go out of him as he landed heavily on a cot under him.

“How did he die?” Alyn peeped.

There was a long silence where the only thing Sandor felt was overwhelming urge to hit the stone wall. “He fell.” Sandor heard the sound of boots on the ground, the opening and closing of a door.

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but it felt like hours. _Littlefinger. Petyr fucking Baelish._

“What?” He heard Alyn murmur “Did he know him or something?”

Brandt came into his line of focus, squatting down slightly in front of him. “There’s more to this than you said, isn’t there?”

Sandor looked around. They were alone. And the words just came pouring out.

“I could have been there on Stranger’s back in no time. I could have walked to her.”

“Why?” Brandt’s voice became louder. “Why would you have done any of that?”

“Gods. We were so close. For ten fucking years, holed up in an ant hill, and she was right there!”

He didn’t feel himself tip over the pallet in front of him, but there it lay, on it’s side, straw mattress flopped helplessly on the stone floor.

“Sandor! Get your shit together!”

He couldn’t sit. The thought of Baelish and his sly, pointed beard invaded his mind. He started to pace, his leg aching with the tense strain in his muscles. “What did he do to her? That whoremonger. That greasy prick!”

“What is going on! What is he talking about?”

“Does she know he conspired against her father to take down the Starks after Robert died? Does she know it was his scheming that started the whole bloody war in the first place?”

He could hear his voice as he yelled, but it was so strange. He hadn’t yelled about anything in years. He stopped pacing.

 _Everyone knew he was in love with Catelyn Stark. Did he marry her because she looks like her mother? Did he marry her to get back at her dead mother for rejecting him?_ He didn’t know what was worse.

“Will you calm down? I don’t understand why you are so upset! Were you her friend?” Brandt asked hesitantly. “You never made it seem that way before!”

He thought back for the thousandth time since he had arrived to her home. Her tears when she looked at him. The fear in her eyes whenever he spoke to her. Her feeble attempts to fight him off when he lifted her from her bed of grief.

“No.” He breathed. “No, I wasn’t her friend.” He made himself unclench his own fists.

Brandt seemed to take it as a sign that he could step closer. “You’re upset about who she was married to. I don’t understand. What if she wanted to be married to him?”

Sandor huffed. “Not likely.”

“How do you know? Colin did just say that he only died about a month ago. Maybe thats why she looks so miserable all the time. She’s in mourning.” Brandt muttered.

Sandor’s chest rumbled. “All I know if that if he weren’t dead, I’d find that fucker right now and pull out his slimy innards right through his scheming bloody throat.”

Alyn came into view and raised his eyebrows. “Whoa.” He shook his head. “I still don’t understand!” He pointed at Brandt. “What does he know that I don’t?

“Didn’t you hear me, boy? The girl’s husband was the scum of the earth. Only one worse would have been my brother!”

Alyn cocked his head, completely lost. “Who’s your brother?”

—

It was a long conversation they had that evening, one Sandor had not been expecting. They all skipped their evening meal, both Alyn and Brandt were too eager to hear all Sandor had to say about the man his brother was. He didn’t tell them _that_ , though. He’d only ever told one person. He told them the basic facts about life in King’s Landing, never once going into specifics. Cersei. Joffrey. Eventually the little bird. Littlefinger. He didn’t know how, but he even ended up on the wolf girl. He hadn’t spoken about any of this in…years. Not since Elder Brother knew everything and there was nothing else to tell. That in itself hadn’t taken much time at all. 

Alyn was all aghast. He couldn’t believe that he was actually kingsguard. Sandor knew the boy was just glad to know why they had been calling him Sam since they had arrived. Brandt’s brow just creased further and further with every passing minute.

“So that’s why you don’t come to evening meals.” Alyn realized. “You don’t want her to see you, because of the way you treated her?” Sandor nodded. He didn’t tell them about that last night he saw her - he had already faced that farce with Elder Brother on the isle - just the way he behaved whenever he was around her. That, and that he just didn’t want to remind her of that period of time in her life. Not if she didn’t want it. “What would she want with a brothel keeper? Her husband doesn’t sound like such a nice man”

“He’s not. Or - wasn’t.” Sandor sighed and flopped down on the pallet behind him, his stomach still churning at the thought of the little bird tied to the whims of Baelish. “But neither am I.”

He heard Brandt clear his throat. “Did you just…compare yourself to her _husband_?”

The room was silent for a moment, as was Sandor’s mind. Before he could attempt to rationalize his words, the door opened and the other men entered the barracks for the night. 

Sandor was saved from the inquisition from Brandt, but not of his own mind. _What in the seven hells made me say that?_ He played the stupid words over and over in his head, hating the memory of the way his voice sounded. _But neither am I._ As if I had been another option for her? Another prospect?

But he had been, hadn’t he? If not for a husband - he pushed the ridiculous notion from his mind - then at least as an ally. He did offer to take her away. She had been the one to refuse. 

 _But she hadn’t refused Baelish._ The thought tore up his insides in such a way that he could hardly explain.

Alyn ran to the kitchens for them and brought back some food. Sandor barely ate and he didn’t sleep a wink that night. He was restless, thinking. Too much thinking. All those nights he slept alone in the cold, forcing himself not to dream of her, and she was _so close_ , sharing her bed with Littlefucker.

He rose early in the morning and was out the door just as the others were beginning to rise. He wanted to do something about the way he was feeling. But what could be done?

He was rewarded for his early rising by a run-in with Norrey. The man shoved a roll of parchment into his hands when he came across him in the yard. 

“Take these to the smithy. Plans for the garden. Metal work needs doing.”

That was all he gave him. Sandor unrolled the plans and took a look. It all looked fairly straight forward. There was soldering work and metal beams that needed to be made, though. He just hoped they had found a blacksmith experienced enough to manage.

He made himself stop and grab a bite to eat and tried to push away the thoughts that had kept him up all night. Littlefinger was dead. He had fallen, whatever that meant. Truly, he couldn’t bring himself to care how or why. As long as the man suffered, it should be enough.

By the time Sandor made it outside again, the sun was full in the sky. He kept his hood up and made his way to the smithy. He always tried to keep his head down whenever he was in the yard, especially on such a bright day. But it was futile to do so on this day.

He swore to himself that he didn’t go looking for them, but there they were. Their little copper heads caught the light of the sun, _just the way hers used to do._

_So there’s the two. And there’s two more? They can’t be older. They must be very young. The small one, Edmund was his name. He can’t be more than five. Six?_

As if he could hear Sandor’s thoughts, the boy looked up and caught his eye. Sandor would have looked away, but Edmund’s little arm shot straight up in the air. He waved it around madly, as if he was solely responsible for leading a ship out of a storm. His smile was bright enough for that task on its own. He gave the boy a nod and watched as his older brother yanked his arm back down by his side.

Sandor gritted his teeth as he continued on to the smithy, hoping - for the boys’ sake - that they had only inherited traits from their mother. 

The blacksmith was working on horse shoes, or so it looked like, when Sandor entered. He had seen him around the keep, inside at morning meals, but he never came to see him at work. 

The young man glanced up at Sandor from the corner of his eye. “You got something for me?”

“Plans for the glass gardens from Norrey. Says you’ll be doing the metal work.” 

“Been waiting on that.” He dropped his hammer and came over to Sandor, his head down as he wiped his hands. “Let’s see.”

He grabbed the parchment from Sandor’s hand. He looked it over, rubbed a dirty hand over his face and murmured something about it going to take at least a few weeks.

Sandor just nodded. They would have enough to do until then, he was sure.

The blacksmith looked overwhelmingly busy and Sandor saw no need to stay. His muscles were aching for the burn of work, anything to get his mind off of Littlefinger.

The man looked up at the last second, right before Sandor turned to leave. He squinted his bright blue eyes at him right before they widened. Sandor ignored it and made his way out. Yet another person to receive a fright from his face. It was nothing new.

He stepped out into the yard. 

He heard it before the horns trumpeted their arrival. The sound of approaching horses. The lowering of the gate. Sandor wasn’t the only one that stood and observed the sudden event; the little bird’s boys were watching from across the way, their eyes alert.

What first came through the gate was truly the last thing he was expecting. Two beasts. One of the purest black. The other grey.

Wolves. _Direwolves._

The horses and their riders came in after. There were near a dozen knights or men at arms, a few mangy men in the back of the trail.

But leading the pack…

Sandor watched with his stomach in his throat as Edmund ran full force toward the newcomers. 

“Arya! Aunt Arya!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh. 
> 
>  
> 
> For anyone who is getting a little impatient (understandably), there are only a couple more Sandor posts until they finally meet again. I should be posting daily until then!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh. just a little puzzle piece.

**Sansa**

 

“My lady.”

Sansa turned, her heavy skirts rustling against one another and the ground too loudly. Myranda stood there, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Randa. Please stop calling me that.”

“Lord Robert is waiting.” Randa stepped forward into the room. “He’s very excited to give his cousin away.”

No sooner was Harry buried that Sansa was being examined by a woman Petyr claimed was a septa. The process was uncomfortable and wholly embarrassing, but in the end, Petyr had what he needed. Proof that she was never truly married to Tyrion Lannister. Proof that she was free to marry once more.

Sansa took a small breath, all that her dress would allow. “Well then.”

Randa’s face changed. “Are you though? Well?”

Sansa blinked at her. “Yes.”

“Sansa.” It was still strange to hear her true name out of her friend’s mouth. It had only been a couple of days since everyone was told. They’d kept it quiet, even though Petyr was convinced that winter’s abrupt arrival would protect her from anyone that meant her harm, especially Cersei - the weakling she had become.

Sweetrobin was happy to have a cousin now. She still thought of the looks Myranda and Mya Stone had given her when they first saw her auburn hair. She blushed furiously, thinking of how embarrassed the girls must have been for speaking in the informal way they had to her for all of this time.

“Don’t lie to me.” Myranda begged. “Please. Not again.”

Sansa looked down at the white embroidered dress she wore and tried not to wipe her damp palms on the fabric. Her voice was small. “You married someone you didn’t want to.”

“But, that’s different.” Randa grabbed her hand. “I’m not the heir of _Winterfell_.”

Sansa swallowed and though Randa’s fingers were a vice on her wrist, she didn’t try to pull away. “Petyr is the one man who has seen to my wellbeing. He took me out of King’s Landing. Kept me safe.”

“But-“

“Randa.” She cut her off. “You seem to forget that I can’t simply run away. WInter is here. And I am still wanted for the murder of the King.”

Randa blinked. “He did it, didn’t he? Lord Baelish?”

Sansa felt her heart pounding against her ribs. “Yes.” _And he got me in return._

Randa’s fingers loosened. “That doesn’t mean you owe him the North. Winterfell. It doesn’t mean you owe him a place in your bed.”

Sansa looked up seeing the utter hopelessness in her friend’s eyes. “Doesn’t it?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: NO!!!!!
> 
> More from Sandor tomorrow. I hope.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post this yesterday, but I think I made it a tad better today.

Rain. The first since spring broke through. The skies opened up as soon as Sandor saw the wolf girl dismount her horse. Her smile broke through the wet though, when she saw her nephew. Sandor didn’t stay to watch. He forced himself to creep along the edge of the yard until he made it back to the godswood.

He wondered what she would do when she found him. _Stick me with that needle of hers, most like. Ridiculous sword._

The moment he saw her, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay. He didn’t tell Brandt and Alyn. He wouldn’t. He would leave in the night. Better leave unseen than risk getting caught like he was doing something wrong. Which he wasn’t. Was he? He’d see to Norrey, get whatever scraps of coin he could from the week of work, and he and Stranger would be gone. 

The heavy canopy kept out most of the rain, but not everything. The dirt was wet and heavy. Most of the remnant was cleaned out of the garden. All that remained were the splinters, shards and little pieces that littered the dirt. They raked and tilled, shoveled and dug it all out. Alyn lackadaisically, Brandt mechanically, Sandor furiously. He put his frustration into his work, just as he used to at the isle.

By the end of their day, just one wheelbarrow was full and ready to be dumped. It was so heavy and full of wet, useless dirt - he knew the others still weren’t strong enough to heft it all the way. He threw on his cloak, his hood and wheeled the mess through his familiar path in the godswood, past the heart tree and out the gate.

Seeing what waited for him in the yard, he wished he made Brandt or Alyn take it. 

Mud. The yard had turned to a muck infested plot that was a veritable nightmare for someone with such a severe limp. Walking with a busted leg on ice had taken some getting used to, but mud was a different beast all together, slippery sludge that sucked onto the bottom of his boots and tried to make him trip up. He took it slow, placing one boot in front of the other, trying not to lean too much on his good leg and lose his balance. 

Sandor should have kept his eyes on his feet, on the path that lay ahead, but he didn’t. The little bird was across the way. He knew it was her. He could see it in the way she stood, her posture, the pale face under her heavy hood. She was holding a basket. She was alone. 

He went down fast, dropping the wheelbarrow on his way, twisting his ankle and falling hard on his knees into the deep puddle that had tripped him.

His first thought was the searing pain that shot up through his knees, but then he saw her. Her head turn toward him, her hands release the basket she held as she came running in his direction.

She was coming closer, he could almost make out her face. As she could almost see his - his hood had fallen off.

Sandor’s mind came back to him and he picked his hood up again, his wet hair falling in his eyes. He used his hands to push himself out of the muck, slipping and nearly falling again in his haste. He ignored the ache burning up his leg as he lifted himself up straight again.

He looked up. She had stopped. She only got half the way to him. He still couldn’t make out her face. There was no way she could have seen him so quickly.

And then through the downpour, she yelled to him. “Are you hurt?”

Her voice. It was so strange hearing it. It sounded like her, from what he could remember, but it was different. She was older. It was deeper than he thought it might be.

She stepped forward again. He needed to respond. He grabbed the handles to the barrow and shook his head. All he could see was her furrowed brow before she nodded back and retreated to retrieve her fallen basket.

As soon as her back was turned, Sandor let himself breathe again. She hadn’t seen him. _But that was too fucking close._

He made himself move forward, forcing himself to work through the pain in his leg. _What the hells am I thinking? Just over a week and I’ve already had a run in with her._ As if the wolf girl’s returning wasn’t enough to tell him it was time to leave…

He dumped the scrap and headed for the woodshed where the wheelbarrows were kept, keeping his head down, watching one foot follow the other all the way. He stowed the barrow. Maybe he shouldn’t wait for tonight. Maybe I should just go now. He made his way to the door.

The giant growling visage of a direwolf stopped him. The wolf girl stood next to her beast, glaring directly at him, nearly as fiercely.

_Well that hadn’t taken long._

“You know she’d rip out your throat if I told her.”

The beast only stood an arms length away and nearly came up to his chest. He believed her. Someone came into view in the doorway. The blacksmith. He stood with his arms over his chest, protectively behind her. _So that’s how it is._ As if the girl needed protection, her wolf at her side, her needle at her hip.

“If you wanted me dead you would have done it a decade ago.”

She stepped forward, baring her teeth just like her wolf. “I wanted you to suffer before you died. I’m the one who made the mistake by not seeing it through. Only this time I’d make sure I’d wait, make sure it was finished properly.”

The blacksmith reached out and grabbed her shoulder. A calming gesture it seemed. The girl wrenched away from him and gave him a look as if he had just backhanded her. The man’s eyes widened and he stepped back. If there wasn’t a direwolf poised at the ready for his throat, Sandor would have laughed.

She was still just a girl, but she had that man under her thumb.

He took a second to look at her then. Last time he saw her, she had just been a little hungry, wiry thing. She’d grown into her own, that much was obvious. Dressing in men’s clothes didn’t hide the woman underneath. She was thin, but she always had been. Strong now. Her hair, longer than he might have expected it to be, twisted into a messy braid that fell down her back.

“You shouldn’t be here.” She snarled. “Why would you ever think you would be allowed to come here.” She took another step forward, reaching up for the scruff on her wolf’s neck. “Do you forget the things you said? About _her_? What you wish you had done?”

Sandor’s stomach turned, thinking back to that day. He’d never meant the things he said. He thought he did, but after ten years, he knew he never meant to hurt the little bird like that. They were just the words of a mad, dying man, begging for the relief of mercy.

“No.” He said. “I didn’t forget.”

“Neither did I.” The girl sneered, he saw something in her eyes.

Sandor clenched his teeth. “You never told her.”

She blinked. “I saw no reason to upset her further with the words of a dead man.” Her fingers clenched tighter into her wolf’s fur. “I’ll make sure I tell her now. Has she seen you?”

He shook his head.“No.”

“Good. Then you need to leave. Today. Before you can traumatize her even more.”

She let go of the beast, who gave a good snap of her jaws before turning and following her master out in the yard once more.

_Before you can traumatize her even more. Did she mean even more than he had already done in King’s Landing? Or more than she already was now?_

Sandor blinked and saw that the man had stayed. The blacksmith. He clearly had something to say so Sandor waited as the man stepped into the doorway.

“You don’t remember me. I wouldn’t expect you to.” Sandor made no move to answer. “I was with Arya, the night you fought Dondarrion.”

Sandor felt a twitch in his shield arm at the thought.

“I had to tell her you were here.” He shrugged before turning to leave. 

Sandor’s suspicions that the man wasn’t finished were confirmed when he turned back around, leaning awkwardly against the door frame. He looked Sandor in the eye and let out a short sharp breath before he spoke. “When I finally got what happened out of her, it was all rage and hate first.” He tapped on the doorframe. “But then little bits would come out. Stories. How you lived on a farm for a few weeks, tried to work. Tried to bring her to Riverrun. Her uncle. Her aunt.” His voice got quiet. “You never hurt her. I know that. So…thank you.” He made a strange face, clicked his teeth together as his brow knitted up. His last words came out in a rush. 

“Strange to say, but I think she was lucky that you found her then, though she would never admit it. She can take care of herself now, no question about that. But then? She was just a kid wasn’t she?” 

Sandor could still see her.  Stabbing the dead man over and over again, blood splattering her slender face. Rolled up in a mousy little ball under a tree, too grief stricken to even move. She _was_ just a child.

“I know she doesn’t really hate you. She doesn’t mean what she says. But I know she is going to tell Lady Sansa, whatever it is that you said.” Sandor snapped back to the present. _She didn’t tell him either._ “And you don’t know what she’s been through this winter. Lady Sansa. _I_ certainly don’t. I’m not even sure that Arya knows everything either.” The blacksmith shrugged. “Anyway, she’s right. It is best if you leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, they really are going to meet soon.
> 
> Anyway, I thought of this interaction between Arya and Sandor early on. It's cool to finally put it out there.
> 
> More from Sansa tomorrow. Maybe even later on today actually.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the reasons I mentioned before, anyone so inclined may want to skip the first part of this. Whenever you see this *** that is a warning. If you see it again, that will mean its safe!

 ***

“You’re cold.”

Sansa wasn’t the least bit cold. The fire was burning bright in the hearth. The room was too warm. And though her heavy burden of a wedding gown was unlaced, torn and falling off of her she couldn’t stop shivering, her arms clasped to her front, trying to hold the fabric up.

Petyr held his hand out to her. “Come. Let me warm you.”

She’d never seen a grown man without his clothes. His torso was bare, his breeches hung lose on his hips. He had narrow shoulders. Thin, greying hair on his chest. The skin at his stomach was a little loose. And there was an enormously long scar that slashed across his chest. She still hadn’t moved. He let out a half-laugh from his nose and stepped forward toward her quickly. 

“It’s an ugly scar, I know.”

Sansa wasn’t thinking about the scar. She’d seen worse.

Petyr took her hand that was clamped to her chest. He raised it to his own, stepped closer, and traced her fingers along the scar on his skin. “I received this in your mother’s honor.” Sansa felt another chill go through her at the thought of her mother. _Why would he bring her up? Right now?_ Sansa kept her eyes on her hand as he made her palm press flat on his chest and tried not to think about what her dead mother would be thinking if she knew what was going to happen. She could feel the steady, hard beating of his heart. She’d been so focused on the feeling, that she gave a little start when his other hand found its way to her hair. 

Her eyes flashed up to his. She felt the pressure on the back of her head where his hand moved her forward. He brought her lips close to his and kissed her. They’d done it before. Kiss. But it changed, and quickly. He’d never kissed her like this. Not with tongue. Heavy steady breathing from him. Gasping from her. He took her arms and placed them around his neck. Sansa let them hang there as he put both of his hands in her hair, moving her head the way he wanted it, the better to access her mouth.

His hands moved down to her shoulders. Sansa had to steel herself so not to freeze up as he slipped the remnants of her dress down over her hips.

She couldn’t remember getting to the bed, lying down on it, him taking off the rest of his clothes and laying down next to her. But all of a sudden, there they were.

Sansa laid ramrod straight and automatically crossed her legs at her ankles. It was all she could do to keep her arms at her sides rather than cover her breasts the way she wanted.

Petyr hovered over her, kissed her again. “I’m going to touch you. You’re going to like it, I promise.”

And then his mouth was on her neck, one arm holding himself up on the side, and his other hand trailed down her body. He kneaded gently at her breast, let his fingers trail down her stomach, her side. Her legs shuddered with the tension of keeping them closed.

Petyr looked up at her, a crooked smile on his face, his fingers were warm on her thigh. “Relax.”

It was strange, uncomfortable and all together mortifying at first. But after a while, a strange, warm, tingling feeling ran through her body. For a few seconds she forgot where she was. When she opened her eyes, she saw that her right hand clenched at the bed sheets, her left gripped into his shoulder. The look in his eye changed, from pleased with himself, to hungry. He told her it was time to open her legs. So she did.

 

 

***

 

 

“My lady?”

“Oh. Ser Lothor.” She didn’t remember getting up from the bed nor putting on her robe. She did not remember walking down the dark halls and reaching the kitchens. But there she sat, at a small table near the dwindling hearth fire. “I didn’t see you there.”

The man merely blinked. “Can I escort you back to your chambers?”

“Perhaps…perhaps not just yet.”

“Are you...” He stepped through the doorway. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She wasn’t sure if she was answering the latter question, or both. She didn’t think the slight ache in her belly, between her legs could be considered true pain. She was certainly uncomfortable, and only just realized that she didn’t quite want to be alone. “Would you…would you sit with me? Just for a moment.”

He did, without a word.

He could have filled the silence with pleasantries about the wedding, but he didn’t. She thought about him at the wedding, watching him watch Mya, a smile on his mouth that only came about when the girl was around. She looked up at him. A lost, dazed look in his eyes as he stared into the fire.

“I’m afraid I never thanked you, Ser.”

He looked at her, his brow knitted together. “Thanked me?”

“For stopping Marillion.” Saying his name turned her stomach in on itself. But not just for what he tried to do to her – for what she and Petyr did to him.

“It was nothing.”

“It was to me.” Sansa picked at her nail. “Have I ever told you that you remind me of someone?“ Her mouth felt dry again. “Someone I once knew?”

“No my lady.”

“Well, you do. The first time I saw you, I actually thought you were him, for a moment.”

A pause. “May I ask who?”

She swallowed. She remembered being rescued from a riotous mob. And later, from a determined singer. “Someone who looked out for me. Like you do.”

He gave her a twitch of the mouth, a half smile.

They were quiet for a little while longer. She thought of getting back into bed with Petyr. It was large enough, she could sleep on the other side. She thought it would be better to get back before he woke up. Or worse, before he came to find her. 

“You could see me back to my chambers now, if you would like.”

The man rose and waited for her to move in front of him. She stayed by his side and wrapped her arm around his. From the corner of her eye, she saw him look down at her as he paused,. But she made nothing of it and they moved on ahead back to her chambers. Back to her lord husband.

The next night, she had to slip out from under Petyr’s arm, but Ser Lothor was there waiting for her. He was there the night after. And the next.

They spoke about the changing weather. His lordship. Myranda. Mya Stone. His smile was infectious when he spoke about her. But they never truly spoke of themselves - or the man asleep in her bed.

It had been almost two weeks since the wedding when she got there before Lothor one evening. She could barely wait for Petyr’s breaths to slow before wrapping herself up in her robe and flitting out to the kitchens. 

***

“Funny to think how you could have been my daughter.” Petyr had said, right before he pushed into her. “And now I’m giving you sons.”

***

Sansa stood there in the kitchen in her heavy robe, too warm by the fire, his words circling through her head, over and over.

She heard the now familiar steps of Lothor come into the kitchen. A pause. “Lady Sansa. Are you well?” He hadn’t asked her in many nights.

Only then did she notice that her fingers were clutched into the fabric of her robe, digging into the soft flesh of her belly. She let go, wrapped her arms around her middle. She looked up at him, his face somewhat blurred. “I’m not ready.”

Sansa turned back to the fire in the hearth and blinked the blurriness away. From the corner of her eye she could see him nodding, to himself it seemed. Her took her back to her room only moments later, but she found no sleep that night.

The next evening, Lothor had arrived first. On the table between them sat a steaming cup of liquid.

He pushed it toward her. “For you.”

She looked at him, the question in her eyes. He nodded. She stepped forward, took a small sip. It was a little bitter. Another sip. She sat down, and soon the cup was empty. 

“You’ll have to drink it every evening.” He told her.

Sansa went to sleep that night, easily for was the first time in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's about as graphic as its gonna get. 
> 
> Also-
> 
> I just love Lothor Brune ok?!?!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Sandor.

He didn’t know how he found himself there, in front of the heart tree in the godswood. His bad knee throbbed underneath him as he knelt in front of the bleeding white face.

Even after what had happened with her little sister, all he could see was the little bird. _She can’t be cold as ice._ _Why else would she drop what she was holding and run across the muddy yard in the rain to see if a stranger was hurt after he had fallen?_ It was all he could think about as he trudged aimlessly through the rain and into the godswood once more.

It wasn’t like being in the sept filled with the wooden statues at the isle. The blank faces of the gods looking down on him never elicited anything other than boredom and frustration. But gazing into the haunting red eyes of the weirwood in front of him was wholly unnerving. It was like they were piercing through him, as if they were real. If ever there was a sign that he didn’t belong, it was the feeling he received kneeling in front of that white tree.

“Hello!”

Sandor’s eyes widedned. _They don’t talk. They can’t actually talk._ Besides, he didn’t think a tree with a face like that would be speaking with the voice of a little boy. 

He looked up and let out a bark of a laugh. “You again.”

Her younger child, Edmund, was sitting on a branch in the tree, hiding behind the blood red leaves, swinging his little legs back and forth.

“What are you doing here?” Sandor asked him as he got to his feet.

“Climbing, of course!”

The elder came from behind the trunk. _How’d I miss him?_ “What are _you_ doing here? In my family’s godswood.”

 _Must get his kindness from his aunt._ “I’ve been working in here, on the garden. Never got the chance to stop and look at the tree. Wanted to before I left.”

The boy let out a breath before turning around. He leapt up, grabbing the lowest branch on the tree and pulled himself up to follow his brother’s movements up higher into the tree. 

“You mean you’re leaving?” Edmund called down. “How come?”

Sandor shrugged. “It’s time I move on, is all.” Edmund was standing on a sturdy branch, trying to reach the next that would put him above Sandor’s head. Sandor shifted so that he was underneath the boy. Joffrey was never the type to climb trees. Sandor knew he was afraid of being reckless. If either of these boys were afraid, it might have been the elder. But not for himself, it seemed. His eyes were only on his brother, clambering higher and higher.

“Edmund, would you be careful up there?” His brother called up.

“I’m fine Siggi, come on!”

Sandor looked at the elder, keeping the corner of his eye up on Edmund. “Siggi’s your name?”

The boy looked like he was trying not to roll his eyes as he focused on the branches to reach his brother. “It’s Sigrin. My brother just uses a stupid nickname.”

Edmund’s voice was getting softer as he climbed further up into the tree. “It’s not stupid. Mother uses it. Sometimes. Our Uncle Robert made it up, mother says.”

“Uncle Robert?

“Lord Robert Arryn of the Vale.” Sigrin clarified.

“Right.” Sandor muttered. _That’s where they must have lived most of their lives._ His stomach still turned at the thought of her being trapped there with Littlefinger, so close to him all winter long. He shook the thought away. 

“You two have some powerful family, don’t you?” Sigrin just shrugged and Sandor thought of something he had completely forgotten about. “So, what makes the king your uncle?”

Edmund’s face popped through the leaves above him. “He grew up our mother’s brother. But then they found out that he’s really only her cousin.”

“And rightful king of the seven kingdoms.” Sigrin muttered under his breath.

“Son of Rhaega Targaryen and Lyanna Stark!”

“It’s Rhae _gar_ , Edmund.” Sigrin sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Rhae _gar_. Right!” Edmund peeped through the leaves.

Sigrin let out a little groan as he followed his brother.

Sandor remembered the bastard boy. He was leaving for the wall when Sandor was last at Winterfell. _So Ned Stark_ was _too honorable to father a bastard._ Targaryen royalty. The world truly had turned on its head when he was living like an ant.

“What’s your name?” He looked up again, Edmund was lounging like a mountain cat along a thick branch, his little limbs hanging down on either side.

It wouldn’t matter. He was leaving. The wolf girl knew, the little bird would too, soon enough.

He cleared his throat. “Sandor.”

Edmund nodded his approval before he hopped up on his feet again. 

“Your mother lets you out here alone? Climbing in the trees?” Sandor moved under Edmund again, careful of the pool behind him.

Sigrin had his eyes on his brother.“Not all the trees. Just this one.”

“That’s right. Besides, we’re not alone. We’ve got-“

“Edmund, don’t!”

It happened so fast, Sandor barely caught it. Sigrin reached up and forward, whether to stop Edmund from moving, or talking, he wasn’t sure. But his foot must have slipped and he came tumbling down.

Sandor dove to the side, but Sigrin’s lithe form came too fast, slamming hard on the old ground. 

“Siggi!” His brother screeched from the canopy. Sandor scrambled over to him, put his hand on his chest. “Is he dead!” He fell flat on his back. Hit his head hard on the ground. His chest still rose and fell, but he was out cold.

“No!” Sandor called up and he heard Edmund scrambling down through the leaves. “You be careful, boy! Don’t need two of you falling like this!”

Sandor put his head to the boy’s nose. _Still breathing._

He heard Edmund give a little huff of breath as his feet hit the ground running. His knees hit the earth on the other side of his brother. He made a little strangled noise of worry. “You have to carry him!”

Sandor stammered. “I’m not fast enough.”

“I’m not strong enough!” Edmund held out his stick-like arms as proof.

Sandor’s mind snapped into focus. “You run ahead. Call for help. I’ll be right behind you.”

Edmund nodded before jumping up and running away from him out toward the gate.

As gently as he could, Sandor slipped his arms underneath Sigrin’s body and lifted him. He got to his feet as steadily as he could manage. He held him out in front of him, wary of shifting his body, lest he truly be hurt. He watched every root and twig that might have tripped him up as he made his way through the silent godswood.

“Don’t be broken. Don’t be broken. For fuck’s sake, _don’t die._ ”

The rain had stopped, thankfully, so he could just see little Edmund running through the heavy doors of the great keep.

He knew he couldn’t risk dropping the boy again, so he still went slow over the mud, watching out for that beast of a puddle and eventually made it through the doors after Edmund.

“Siggi fell!” He heard him yelling. “He fell out of the heart tree!”

A table was the first thing he saw. Sandor placed him gingerly, flat on the table and stepped back against the wall as people came flooding in from another room, from down the stairs.

Lord Rickon. The wolf girl. A guard. A maid holding a baby. A smaller child. Edmund. The little bird. 

“Arya.” Rickon called out. “Go find Maester Glenn. Right away.”

She ran past Sandor and back out the door, not even seeing him. All eyes were on the boy on the table. 

“Siggi.” The little bird staggered toward him. “No. No no no no.” Her hands fluttered over her son.

“He wasn’t high enough.” Edmund finally cried. “He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead!”

Rickon went down to his knees, his hands were on Edmund’s shoulders. “Ned, tell me what happened.”

The boy told his story, tears streaming down his face, but Sandor couldn’t take his eyes off the little bird. Her eyes were wide as anything, red rimmed but no tears fell. Her face more pale than he could ever recall seeing in his short time there. The guard he had seen around before stood closely next to her. He looked just as helpless as Sandor felt.

“My fault.” Sandor could barely hear her over Edmund’s heart wrenching crying. “It’s all my fault.”

The guard took her arm, made her look at him. “What are you talking about? How could this be your fault?”

"You of all people should know the answer to that." She wrenched her arm free. “It’s my fault.” Her hand cupped her son’s small face and Sandor knew it was time to leave.

“He was there!” Edmund cried, pointing toward him. “It was Sandor who carried him back.”

“What did you just say?” The little bird’s voice cracked, her head snapped up.

Edmund pointed again. “Sandor!”

Sandor put his hand to his head. His hood was off. She was looking directly at him. Her mouth was a pale white line, as she stood there utterly still, her ice blue eyes boring into his.

He didn’t know what to do. What to say. It just came out. “Little bird.”

And then she went down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay!! I mean, not for Siggi falling and Sansa freaking the heck out, but you know, at least that's all finally done with.
> 
> Let me just say now: I'm not trying to break records and create something entirely new with this story. I'm just going to write what I like and what comes into my head!!
> 
> P.S. Anyone who is watching the premiere tonight: God speed. Made some Little Bird Lemoncakes (see the link!) to make the experience veritably more enjoyable. THEY'RE SO GOOD! 
> 
> (https://www.instagram.com/p/BElsUZsGxXe_f3sv1HTikJPmJo22MEpBtyIN840/)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for 100 kudos, all! That's pretty neat :)
> 
> A bit more from Sansa. Remember, her POVs are on their own timeline. So this takes place one year after we last read her POV!

**Sansa - One Year Later**

 

“You care for her, don’t you?”

“My lady?”

Sansa hid her grin behind her cup. “Mya Stone.” She took a sip.

Lothor only blinked at her, his smile fading from his mouth. 

“She is my very dear friend, as you know.” She put her cup down between them. “Perhaps I could talk to her for you. It’s the very least I could –“

“What’s this?”

Sansa whipped around. “Petyr.” 

Her husband stood at the doorway of the kitchen, wrapped in his robe, barefoot.

Ser Lothor stood, his expression blank. “My Lord.”

Petyr was shaking his head. “What is going on?”

Sansa swallowed and stood slowly. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

His brow furrowed, he seemed reluctant to enter the room. “Why did you not wake me?”

“I… I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“But you saw it fit to disturb the captain of the guard.”

Lothor cleared his throat. “Lady Sansa did nothing of the sort, my lord, I assure you.”

Petyr looked back at her, at Lothor behind her and down at the table between them. _Oh gods the cup._ She forgot about the cup of tea sitting on the table.

Petyr breathed in and found her eyes once more. “Come, Sansa.”

She didn’t let herself look back at Ser Lothor as she stepped forward. She took her husband’s hand that he offered and followed him down the hall to their bedchamber. Petyr helped her remove her robe before taking off his own and blowing out a candle. She followed him into bed and let him gather her into his arms. It always felt strange, being slightly taller than her husband. When they lay this way in bed, their similarity in size was always too apparent. But if Petyr ever noticed, he didn’t seem to mind. He breathed evenly with her head on his chest, brushing his hand through her hair. He was quiet for so long that she almost thought he was going to let it go. Almost.

“Do you love me Sansa?”

 _Love?_ She’d never thought of it before. Not since her days in King’s Landing. And certainly not in reference to her own husband. But she could have only imagined the response she would get if she answered him truthfully now. “Yes.” She told him meekly.

“Then how come you’ve never told me?”

 _You’ve never said it to me._ She swallowed her first response and took the safer road, not knowing where he was headed. “I love you, Petyr.”

“And are you happy with the life I’ve given you?”

She thought of the alternative. Her head on a spike for the murder of the king. “Yes.”

“Then why can’t you sleep, sweetling?”

“I don’t know. A nightmare I suppose.”

“Hmm…Perhaps not a nightmare. Perhaps it was your lies that have kept you awake at night.” She didn’t dare say a word, move, or even breathe. “You seem to forget how I made my living in the capitol, Sansa. I know moontea when I smell it.” His hand was still soft in her hair. But his fingers on her shoulder gripped a little tighter. “You made me believe there was something wrong with you. Something wrong with me. How long have you been drinking it? Since we’ve been married?”

 _What good would lying do now?_ She nodded into his chest.

“Where did you get it?”

She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t already figured it out for himself.

Petyr breathed in deeply. “I could have him punished for this.”

“What?” She lifted her head. She wished she could see his face. She was glad she couldn’t. “Petyr, please don’t. Ser Lothor has always been faithful to you.”

She could hear his head move against the pillow as he tilted his chin to the side. “Have you?”

Sansa lifted herself higher, her hand on his chest, her voice louder than she was expecting. “What are you suggesting? Are you asking if I… if he and I-“_

Petyr brought her back down to his chest, his hand in her hair. “I know you didn’t, sweetling. All is well.” _Then why would he say that?_ “Just tell me why. Why would you prevent us from having a child?”

She could feel her heart hammering in her skull. “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

 _Of bearing your child._ “Of…of giving birth.” Her mouth was dry. “The pain.” She knew he knew she was lying. Someone once told her she was a terrible liar. He was quiet beneath her. She knew there was nothing else she could say. “I’m sorry Petyr.”

“Sansa.” Petyr breathed in. “You’ll never drink it again.”

And so she never did.

**\--**

“Are you not hungry, my lord?”

Robert sat across from her at their morning meal. He spun his spoon around miserably in his full bowl of porridge that was no longer steaming hot.

Her cousin simply grunted in response. 

How badly she wanted to tell him that he had better eat. How there were people out there starving in the snow. How he was lucky enough to have his stores stocked plentifully. How he should not waste. But she knew how impossible it would be to be so truthful. He would have another fit and Sansa could not bring herself to deal with it at the moment - there was far too much on her mind.

Ser Lothor usually stood watch over their morning meals together. But in his place stood another guard. A young knight. Ser Owen, if she remembered correctly.

She looked at Petyr at the end of the table. She avoided asking for so long, she could no longer stand to wait.

“Where is Ser Lothor?”

Petyr looked up from his letter as if he had only just realized the man was missing. “Oh. I’ve sent him away.”

“Sent – sent him away? In the storm?”

Petyr looked at her over his cup of tea. “Yes. I had an important task for him.” He put his cup down and leaned forward toward her, a look of concern on his face. “Is there an issue, my wife?”

Sansa shook her head. “Of course not.” So it would be a grave punishment indeed. There was no way Ser Lothor could survive this storm, all because he had tried to help her. Sansa’s bones went cold, imagining the kind man out in the snow on his own, all because of her. She breathed in slowly, determined not to let Petyr see how much he had hurt her.

She took a bite of bread from her plate and made herself chew slowly, swallow. Breathe. “What news of the rest of the country, Petyr?”

Her husband shrugged. “Nothing of significance. No one has managed to rid young Tommen of his crown just yet. And for some reason Cersei is still alive, avoiding judgement for the time being.”

The thought of the woman sent chills up her spine. She hoped he would not see. She knew it was his version of a threat. _Cersei is still alive. There are still people out there who want you dead for King Joffrey’s murder._ It was strange how involved both she and Petyr used to be with everything in the country, but now they were merely observers. Everyone was, it seemed, so long as the winter continued.

Petyr picked up another letter and Sansa made herself take another bite. 

“Hmm.” Petyr muttered. “And good riddance.”

Sansa swallowed the dry bread in her throat. “What is it?”

Petyr wiped at his mouth delicately. “Do you remember that mess at Saltpans?”

She picked up her tea. She needed something to do with her hands. “I do.”

“It would appear the man who caused it all was _not_ the Sandor Clegane we had the misfortune of knowing. It’s said that the Hound had already been killed and buried by the time the attack occurred.”

Sansa put her cup down. “Killed?”

Petyr hummed in conformation as he sipped his tea. He pushed his chair back and stood.

“I’ve a meeting with Ser Lyn, sweetling.” He stepped around to the side of the table where Sansa was seated, gripped her shoulder and kissed her hair. “It seems all the monsters from your past are slipping away.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and left the room.

_All but one._

\--

That night, after lying with Petyr, he fell asleep completely enveloping her. His arms were so heavy around her, even in his sleep he was preventing her from escaping to search for more moontea if she wanted. But she couldn’t find it in herself to do so that night, only managing to squirm away to the other edge of the bed.

She heard herself whisper into the darkness. _The Hound._ She thought of the time he came to her. He offered to take her away, bring her home to Winterfell. She often thought of what her life might have been like if she had accepted him. She never considered the thoughts as true regret, not until the moment she heard he had been killed. 

Sansa. never truly let herself think of it, but for some reason, deep down, there was a little part of her that almost expected for Sandor Clegane to show up in her life again. To offer to take her away once more. To save her from this life which she was supposed to believe she was so privileged to live. She almost wanted to laugh. It was a ridiculous thought, but sometimes the mind could wander off without permission.

She’d heard what he had supposedly done at Saltpans. But she knew immediately that it could not have been him. The man had been rude, coarse and violent surely, but she just did not believe he was capable of such a ruthless act, especially one that involved fire. She was a first hand witness to the man’s fear and she knew he could never inflict the same fate on a helpless village.

So if he had died, long ago, so had her mere hope or dream of escape. Now that Lothor was gone, any reminder of the man that was would never even come to her again. She cried. For Lothor Brune. Sandor Clegane. And shamefully, for herself. There would be no rescue. The man that lay next to her was her rescuer. And that was all there was to it.

She managed not to wake her husband as she cried herself to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a quick thank you to LadyTP for helping me out with this weird writing tick of mine!! Thank you for picking up on it and giving such thoughtful suggestions. I really appreciate it :)
> 
> Ok so more from Sansa tomorrow. She's gotta catch up. AND THEN! And then...
> 
> I'm sure you can guess.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so after a lot of consideration, I just wanted you all to know that I added a past relationship tag for Sansa and Petyr, but not in the relationship section. 
> 
> I did that for the sole reason that I don't want Sansa/Petyr shippers to start reading this with their main man as the villain of this fic. Thank you to those who helped with the suggestions, because I really didn't want to leave it untagged forever.
> 
> Also, I'll say it again and I will post it at the start of this fic: if anyone feels uncomfortable reading very much about Sansa and Petyr or just Sansa's past life in the Vale, you could very well skip Sansa chapters and just learn about her past more slowly and in less detail along with Sandor. 
> 
> This is another Sansa chapter. I'll summarize it at the end if you want to just skip ahead!
> 
> (FYI: I picture Robert about 12-13 years old, even though I know its it canon)

**Three months later**

Sansa was looking down so she didn’t notice when Mya came rounding the corner, too quickly to stop. They met in the middle with a crash. Mya fell on top of her, Sansa’s hair pinned underneath her arm.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa!”

Sansa caught her breath and let out a laugh. “It’s fine Mya. Just, get off my hair.”

She wasn’t hurt. She didn’t fall hard, thankfully. She slipped easily and slid onto her backside.

She disentangled from Mya, her friend still apologizing profusely, and got on her way to visit Robert. _How strange. Mya is usually so sure of foot._

She still saw her friends every day. Though they tried early on, they didn’t truly understand what it was like for her. And after a while, they stopped speaking of such things. Sansa barely saw Petyr during the day. It was only at night and in the morning that she had to see him. For the rest of the time, she didn’t feel the need to discuss him further.

Coleman was with Robert when she arrived.

She sat next to her cousin’s sleeping form on his bed. “How long has he been asleep?”

“Almost three days, my lady.”

Sansa pushed Robert’s heavy hair out of his eyes. His breaths were slow and so shallow.

 _I’ve been neglecting him_. Sansa had been too wrapped up in her own mind with thoughts of Ser Lothor, Sandor Clegane, and other more pressing matters that she hardly paid any mind to her poor cousin Robert.

“Sweetsleep?”

Maester Coleman looked down at her. “Of course.”

“You tried warning me once, about its powers.” The maester was silent as she looked squarely at him. “I don’t want him to take it anymore.”

The man looked torn. “I understand my lady, and I admit, I wholeheartedly commend your decision. But-“ He cut himself off.

“But what?”

Coleman wrung his hands together. “Lord Baelish insists-“

“You’ll leave my husband to me.” She looked back down at Robert, sleeping far too heavily. “From now on, I will be much more attentive to his lordship. And should he ever need the poison again, you will see me before administering it to him.”

A compliant sigh. “As you wish, my lady.”

“It is my wish.” She stood from the bed and observed the frightful man. “It is also my wish that we keep this conversation a secret. Do I have your word?”

Coleman nodded, but his eyes were distant. He was looking past her, out the window behind her. She turned her head and saw it. Merely a dark speck, moving slowly through the heavy wind and snow.

 _Oh thank the seven_.

Sansa couldn’t remember the last time she had run so fast. She must have been quite a sight, as she was there at the door to meet Ser Lothor when he collapsed. She fell to her knees by him just as Mya and Maester Coleman came rushing in behind her.

He reached his hand out to her. Half of his fingers were black.

“I need to see Lord Petyr,” His teeth chattered against each other. “Immediately.”

\--

“What was it that you sent Lothor out to do?”

Petyr didn’t look at her when he answered. “There’s no reason you need to know.”

Sansa traced the ugly scar on the middle of his chest. “It must have been very important, having nearly cost him his life.”

Petyr caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “All he lost were his fingertips.” He kissed hers. “I’d say he made out quite well.”

“Was he successful? In this task?”

“Yes. Quite successful.” Sansa pulled away as her husband got up and out of their bed.

So he still wouldn’t tell her. Sansa sighed and followed him out of bed.

***

She couldn’t say she truly minded it, lying with Petyr. She was used to it now. At the beginning, she tried her hardest not to enjoy it, but Petyr knew was he was doing. Night after night her body betrayed her and she found herself clinging to him, gasping shamefully for him in their bed. And for a moment, just for the moment it lasted, she would forget that she was trapped in a castle in the snow. She could forget just who it was that made her feel the things she did when wrapped in his arms. But then the feeling faded and the unwelcome truth spilled back into her mind.

***

“Robert is still unresponsive.” Sansa wrapped herself up in her robe.

“It is as we expected, then.” Petyr poured himself wine. “I am sorry Sansa, but I’m sure he will soon die.”

Sansa fastened her tie at her waist. “And why should he die?”

Petyr came around to her, wrapped his hands around her steadily growing belly, whispering in her ear. “The Vale has its heir. We do not need him.”

Sansa pulled herself away and turned to face him. “I do. I need him.”

Petyr stayed still, calm, as Sansa backed away toward the door. “Where are you going?”

She grabbed a candle. “For a walk.”

“Sansa.” The way he said her name sounded like a warning. “Our son is growing inside of you. What need do you have for a sickly little boy in your life?”

Her stomach turned at his words, though it may just have been the child he spoke of moving about. “Robert is the only family I have left.” She froze at her own words. She turned at the door and looked at him. His face was blank. Cold. “I’m sorry.”

She stole into Robert’s room that night, curled up next to his small body the way he used to have her do when she was just the bastard Alayne. She put his head on her chest. “Sleep, my sweetrobin.” She smoothed his hair. “Tomorrow, you will awaken, and you will need your strength.” She felt his weak breaths on her skin, and turned her eyes to the darkness of the ceiling. “We both will.”

—

Sansa made sure she was present for Robert’s next shaking spell. Maester Coleman came with leeches, but without the sweetsleep, as they had agreed.

“No.” She stopped him. “No more leeches.”

“My lady. Leeching his lordship always works to soothe him.”

Sansa looked up at him from where she knelt on the ground, holding her shivering cousin’s head still in her lap. “I mean you no disservice maester. You’ve kept him alive thus far. But…” She bit her lip. How much would he permit her to question his life’s work?

Coleman sighed and bent his long neck. “Say your peace my lady.”

“But you’ve only been able to do just that. Keep him alive. He needs to live.” She looked down at him again. “We need to try something new.”

So they did. They stopped the leeching. They gave him honeyed milk when he whined but he didn’t seem to notice there was no sweetsleep mixed in.

His fits still came when he became angry or excited, though Sansa swore they were less often. After an unusually violent episode ended, Sansa crumpled heavily into a chair and breathed evenly and deeply until her racing heart stilled.

Then she had an idea.

—

“What are you doing?”

Sansa opened her eyes. “Hello Robert.”

Her little cousin stepped into the room as if the floor itself was about to jump up and bite at his feet.

“What are you doing?” He repeated, looking down at her.

Sansa let out a deep breath and relaxed her posture, her aching back straining with the effort it took. “Well, I was getting a little anxious earlier, I was feeling so ill, with the baby and all.” She watched his eyes dart down to her growing belly. She hadn’t been ill in almost a month, but he didn’t know that. “So, it may seem silly but, I just sat on the floor and took some deep breaths. It seemed to work.” She shrugged. “I feel a little better.”

“That’s very strange, Sansa.”

She felt herself smile. “I agree. But it helped.”

The next day when she sat with him at their shared midday meal, she put on a little farce. For a moment, she thought she may have taken it too far, hyperventilating and shaking as she did in front of him. When Robert came to her, his hands were shaking too.

“Help me.” She told him. “Help me catch my breath.”

She sat on the floor and practically dragged him with her. She didn’t let go of his hands as she made herself breathe deeply. In through her nose and slowly out through her mouth. It worked faster than she thought it might, Robert’s breaths finding a sequence with hers.

All she had to do was convince him that he was helping her. The next time he got angry over some child’s complaint or another, Sansa did the same with him. Not even she could truly believe it herself when the shaking slowed before it could get any worse.

Before she knew it, it had already been a month without an episode.

—

**Six months later**

Sansa was being torn in two, she was sure of it.

If Petyr came to see her, she wouldn’t know. She would have sent him away either way, just like she did Mya, Randa.

It was easy to forget about, being pregnant, in the beginning. Less so toward the end. She just always tried to put it out of her mind. But now with the pain, all she could visualize was Petyr’s face. She wanted to strangle him for doing this to her. For keeping her there. For giving her no other choice but to give herself to him. To make her the vessel to carry his child in the world.

Somehow she managed to remain fairly quiet through the day long process. But with one last push she screamed so loud she knew it would disturb Petyr in whatever far off corner of the keep he had escaped to.

She felt a release of the horrible pressure. A pause. And a cry.

“It is a boy, my lady.”

Sansa collapsed on her back while they fussed with the mess she must have left. She stared at the stone in the ceiling above her, counting her breaths, her slowing heartbeats.

“My lady, you do not wish to hold your son.” It was not a question. A confirmation. One which she felt she did not need to answer.

There was some movement in the room. Crying, still. Soft voices. But Sansa couldn’t move. She couldn’t truly hear anything over the pounding in her ears. After a few more unanswered questions with concerned voices, the crying stopped, the voices were carried away. The room darkened slightly.

She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but it was a soft voice that woke her.

“My lady. Sansa.” She opened her eyes. Myranda. A forlorn expression on her face. “They say you are well. That your son is healthy. Why do you not wish to see him?” Sansa closed her eyes once more and turned her back to the door. Soft steps forward. “Sansa.” A hand on her shoulder. A sigh.

The room darkened further after Myranda left. Someone brought a candle. She watched it flicker, the wax drip down slowly, creating a puddle at the base.

Sharp footsteps entered the room. Petyr. She shut her eyes. “We have a son, Sansa.” She squeezed her eyes tightly. “I’ve named him.” He didn’t tell her what. She didn’t ask. “When you find it in yourself to care for him, for me, let me know.” Retreating steps. The closing of a door. Sansa burrowed down deeper into the covers.

She could hear the crackling of the hearth fire the next time she awoke. The breath of a new visitor in the room.

“Sansa. Look. Look at him.” It was Robert, but she wouldn’t open her eyes.

His voice changed then and in it she heard the strength of a boy whom she had never met. “Sansa, you came to me six months ago. You made me…be strong. I know…I know I’ll never be exactly, healthy. But I’ve barely had any attacks. I haven’t needed Maester Coleman. That’s because of you. I became strong. For you.”

She felt a depression in the bed, gentle snuffling that was from neither she nor her cousin. “Now you must be strong for this child.”

She could barely hear her own voice, soft and rasping as it was. “I don’t want to see him.”

He moved closer. “What are you afraid of?” Sansa didn’t let herself retreat the way she wanted to. “He looks like our mothers.” Robert whispered. “He looks like you.”

Sansa opened her eyes. In her line of sight, she could tell that her cousin sat next to her on the bed. She could tell that it must have been the middle of the night. But the only thing she could see was the little tuft of curls, coming from the bundle in his arm, glowing copper in the firelight.

She started to sit up and Robert leaned forward to help her. “Give him to me.”

There were no words to describe how it felt, holding her son in her arms. _How could I ever not want him? How could I try to prevent him from coming into my life?_ Sansa cried over the guilt she felt in herself. _What kind of a mother pushes her own newborn child away?_ But even over the guilt, there was an overwhelming sense of joy, love. Love of the like she had never felt before. And she felt in for the first time, there in the middle of the night, holding her heart in her hands.

She could practically hear it; the click of the lock, the tightening of the chain. Her son. He had locked her up for life. She belonged to _him_ now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lothor comes back three months later with some frostbite, Sansa doesn't know what happened.
> 
> Sansa finds a new way to help calm Robert down and the frequency of his seizures deminish. (Unrealistic I know, but hey, this is fiction after all)
> 
> Sansa gives birth to Siggi and is reluctant to look at him until Robert makes her and then she is happy with her son. 
> 
> Is that ok? Let me know if I am doing this well enough!! The suggestions in this iffy Petyr area have been very helpful.
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the enormous notes. More from Sandor tomorrow. Thank you for reading!!
> 
> EDIT: Sandor chapter will be posted Thursday! I apologize!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is alright with the way I ultimately tagged everything. I didn't know I could do that, so I hope it works!
> 
> Anyway, I apologize that this is a day late. But here it is. Finally!

Her man caught her in time and the little bird slumped back into his arms. He lifted her easily  and swiftly into his arms while her brother rushed to her.

“She only fainted.” Her guard announced, a confused expression on his face.

 _Why would she faint?_ Sandor thought she must truly be unwell - _or else she is afraid of me._ The hideous monster that scared her every chance he got. The brutal man that pushed a little girl on her bed and forced a song out of her. _That was the monster she saw._

Sandor brought his mind back to the present. As far as he could tell, Rickon must have assured Edmund that all would be well, but he was following the little bird and the man who held her up the stairs. He looked at Sandor. “Could you take Edmund into the other room, please!”

Sandor looked at the maid in the room. She was busy calming the smaller child, with the baby still in her arms. _Fuck._ He nodded to Rickon and limped over to a still crying Edmund. 

Somehow he corralled the boy into the side room; a large seating area for the family, most like, with a hearth that took up a large portion of the wall. Sandor had the boy sit down and almost immediately, Edmund tried to shove him away with his little arms. 

“You lied to me!” Sandor backed away and watched as Edmund furiously wiped away his tears. “My mother knows you. She fainted when she saw you. How does she know you?”

Sandor sighed and settled in a chair from across the boy. He knew he should have left him there. He should be doing everything possible to avoid getting his head cut off. But Sandor didn’t listen to himself once more and he opened his stupid mouth. 

“I knew her a long time ago. When she was a girl, in King’s Landing.”

Edmund’s eyes opened wide. “My mother’s been to King’s Landing?”

“Of course she has. Lived there, didn’t she?”

“She lived there?” He shouted. “Why? When?”

 _Shit._ She didn’t tell her children. _Why wouldn’t she tell them?_

And then he heard a quiet voice in the back of his mind that sounded quite a bit like Elder Brother. _Perhaps she didn’t want to relive the nightmares of her past._

Edmund looked sore. “Why did she never tell me?”

“I don’t know. Best talk to her about that.”

Edmund was quiet for several minutes as he tried to wrap his head around that, but Sandor knew there were more questions coming. 

“How did you know her? What was she like?”

Sandor just shrugged, ignoring the first question. “Kind. Courteous. The perfect little lady.”

“That sounds like her.” Edmund said thoughtfully. “Were you her friend?”

 _Why did people always ask that question?_ “No. Why?”

“Well, you didn’t say anything bad about her.”

 _Something bad about the little bird?_ He could add to the list for days. She was too courteous. Too generous with her kindness. A terrible liar. Too horribly innocent for the world in which she lived. Too devastatingly beautiful.

The boy sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands.

“They don’t tell me anything. My Uncle Rickon, he doesn’t remember her. Aunt Arya only knows a little. Or, if she knows more, she doesn’t say.” He looked like he had trouble remembering he had to call these practical strangers uncle and aunt.

The boy left it at that for a while and silence took over the room. Sandor watched the door. _Leave._ The Maester must have come and taken Sigrin away, by now. It was quiet on the other side of the door. _Leave._ The one word repeated over and over in his head like a tick. _Leave. Leave._ But he couldn’t move, but for shifting about in his chair. Sandor looked back at the boy. Edmund was staring at him, his little face red and puffy from crying.

“What?” Sandor tried not to snarl.

The boy sniffed and sat up. “Will you tell me what happened to your face?”

Sandor shook his head. “Not a story for your young ears to hear.”

He shrunk down. “Does my mother know?”

Sandor saw her face looking up at him, full of pity. _He was no true knight._ “She did. Don’t know if she’d remember.” _Don’t know if she’s ever told anyone either._ He looked at the boy again. “How old are you?”

“Almost seven.” Sandor’s eyes closed for a moment while he took a breath in. Sigrin might be a little strict on his brother, _but at least Edmund doesn’t have one like I did._

“And Sigrin is…?”

“He’s eight.”

“You have two more siblings?”

He nodded. “Arleth, he’s almost three and Brandon is just a couple months.”

 _Seven hells._ _Four boys._ Perhaps that’s why she was ill. She only gave birth a few months ago. He had to ask. “Is she well, your mother?”

Edmund squinted his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Is she ill?”

“No.” He answered immediately. “I don’t think so.” His brow crinkled. “But she has been different since father died.” His eyes flashed up. “Did you know my father too?”

Sandor didn’t know how to continue. He just nodded. He tried to form the words in his head. _I’m sorry for your loss._ But he wouldn’t lie to the boy. 

Edmund looked at him gravely. “Did you like him?”

The door opened, saving Sandor from having to answer. He brought himself to his feet just in time for the wolf girl to run up to him, jab him in the chest with her fist.

“Stay away from her.” She pounded his chest once more. “Don’t forget. I remember where the heart is.” She snarled. The girl whipped around and was out the door almost as quickly as she came.

Her younger brother stood still at the door, his eyes wide. “I apologize for that.” He shook his head and looked Sandor in the eye. “Sandor Clegane. Thank you for helping my nephews.”

“It was nothing. My lord.”

The man - boy really - blinked. _He’s probably still getting used to the title._ “She’s awake. San - Lady Sansa.”

“Is she hurt?” Edmund yelled. “Is Siggi hurt?”

Rickon turned his attention to the child in the room that Sandor had forgotten all about. “Your mother is just fine. Maester Glenn thinks Siggi will be fine as well.”

Sandor let himself relax ever so slightly. It was short lived.

“She wishes to speak with you.”

Sandor’s eyes flashed up to Lord Rickon. “Who?”

“Sansa. She wants to see you.”

 _Wants? Wishes?_ After what her sister must have just told her, the little bird should have been _demanding_ to see him. See his head on a spike.

“She’s waiting in her solar. It’s just up the stairwell and down the hall.”

Sandor didn’t remember walking through the main room, up the stairs, or even down the hall. But then he was there. Standing in front of a door. The man who had carried her up the same way was opening it for him, a steely look on his plain face. And before he could take another breath, Sandor was standing there in front of her.

“Hello.”

She stood up straight, her arms at her sides. She wore a dress of deep purple. It matched the shadows under her eyes. The dress hung away from her slender body like it had been made for someone twice her weight. She offered no smile, but her eyes were not altogether cold.

He’d been so focused on her face, he hadn’t even noticed it. _Her hair._ When last he saw her, her auburn locks fell down past the middle of her back. Now the ends of her hair barely even grazed her collarbone.

“Please, come in.” He blinked and made his eyes move off of her. She gestured for him to sit in the chair on the other side of her desk.

Sandor felt ridiculous; a scarred, broken man in muddied clothes, blatantly marring the peace and calm in her pretty room. But she asked him to sit, so he did. He heard the door close behind him. The chair creaked noisily beneath him. They both ignored it.

“First.” She started. “Sigrin. You saw him fall?”

 _Right._ “I did.” He told her what happened in the godswood. How he had his eyes on the little one who was higher up. Trying to focus on the importance of the information and not on how strange it was to be speaking to her like this. “Your son couldn’t have fallen more than seven feet or so.” He finished.

“Good. It’s good you were there.” She breathed. “Maester Glenn believes he’s just sustained a shock to his skull. That he should recover any moment.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” There was a brief pause and he couldn’t help but ask. “And you? Are you well?”

“I am. Thank you.” She raised her shoulders and let out a little breath.“Just a little weak. Tired.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid you shocked me, ser. I am sure I have never fainted in my life.”

Sandor hoped she didn’t notice the twitch in his lip when she called him _ser_. He had a blurry memory of telling her why he had never become a knight. _Perhaps she’s just forgotten._ “Is that true?”

The corner of her mouth lifted. Not a smile. “Never. Not when I had news of my mother and brother. Not when I was with child. Not even when-“

She blinked. And he could see it in her eyes. Ser Ilyn’s swing, swift and sharp, removing her father’s head from his shoulders. Even after all this time, he could still hear her screams.

He cleared his throat. “I suppose it’s not every day you see a ghost from your past.”

“Precisely.” Her voice, while gracious, lacked any warmth or tenderness. She asked him how he had ended up at Winterfell and he told her truthfully. Told her about Brandt and Alyn. But he did not tell her about his plan to leave that evening. _Why? What did being found out change? I should still be leaving as soon as she’s finished with me._

“And before that. You spent your winter, where exactly?”

“At the Quiet Isle. A septry near -“

“I know it.” She interrupted him. “That’s funny. Quite near the Vale.”

“Hmm.” Sandor didn’t think it was funny at all.

Her brow furrowed. “Are you…are you a monk now?”

“No. I only worked there.”

She nodded. “So that was after Arya. After she had left you?”

Sandor froze. Part of him wondered if he should just start apologizing now. “You know about that?”

“She told me. Yes.”

His mouth was moved of its own accord. “What did she tell you?”

She blinked. “That you stole her after she ran away from the Brotherhood without Banners. That you meant to ransom her to my mother and my brother. I know you were at the Twins when…” He nodded. She didn’t have to continue. “She talked about after. You tried to find work. Tried to bring her to the Eyrie. But then…was it…at an inn that it happened?”

“It was.”

It took her a moment to respond. “That was you I saw earlier, was it not?”

He looked down at the drying mud caked on his breeches and nodded.

“I beg your pardon if I am too bold, but your- “ She stammered. “Your limp. Is it from that day?”

He only nodded again. 

“Is it very painful?”

“Not anymore.”

She nodded and for the briefest of moments, it was as if a window was cracked open to let in some light in her eyes. “I was nearly at the Eyrie at that point you know?”

His voice sounded strangled, his fingers dug into his knee. “Were you?”

“I was.” The window closed. And the light was gone. “Perhaps, if you hadn’t been so gravely injured you might have made it there as well.”

His head snapped up. Her face was a mask. “It would have been so nice to have _my sister_ with me during the winter.” 

Sandor didn’t know what to say.

She sighed. “Well, I thank you, for keeping her safe.”

Sandor hummed. “She would have made it on her own.”

“That’s what she says, as well.”

Sandor let out a laugh and immediately regretted it. Sounded ridiculous. “So, that’s all she told you?”

The little bird nodded. “It was. Why? Is it not true?”

“No. No it’s all true.” _What? Did the wolf girl not tell her the awful things I said?_

There was a moment of silence. Sandor waited to be dismissed. But she spoke again, her voice quieter than before. 

“I remember when Petyr told me you had died.”

“Baelish told you that?”

She nodded. “He received a letter.”

He remembered Elder Brother sending letters out, claiming Sandor’s innocence and announcing the death of the Hound. Never did he think word might reach the little bird’s ears. She had brought Littlefinger up though, and now the topic couldn’t be avoided.

“I’d heard about him. What happened.” He paused. She waited. Sandor swallowed the dryness in his throat. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say he was sorry.

“Yes. Well…” From the way her shoulders moved, Sandor could tell that she wrung her hands together under her desk. Thankfully, she changed the subject. “So you’ve been working here then?”

He cleared his throat for what felt like the thousandth time. “That’s right. In the glass garden. Cleaned it up. It’s ready to be built again.”

“Well, I thank you kindly for all your hard work.”

 _That’s it._ _‘Thank you for your work but it’s time for you to go.’_ If only he could tell her he was already planning on leaving that day. But she got to it first.

“Do you like working here? Are you being well taken care of, you and your friends?”

Sandor hoped his face didn’t betray his confusion. “Well enough.” Was all he could manage. 

Something changed in her eyes again, but only for a moment. She looked almost nervous, as if she didn’t know how to proceed. As if she didn’t know how to dismiss someone from her service. 

She cleared her throat. Her eyes turned colder than before. Her countenance completely at odds with the words that flowed from her mouth. “I would like it very much if you would stay on, for the time being, see your project through.”

“Stay on?”

She crooked her head, almost condescendingly. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

Sandor swallowed. “No.”

“Well ser. It’s settled then.” She stood and Sandor followed suit. “You’ll stay.”

He didn’t want to correct her, but he couldn’t stand it for another second. He tried to say it gently when the words came from his mouth, but he failed. “Still not a ser, little bird.”

“As I am no bird, ser.” 

Sandor blinked at her. Her voice had turned to stone, her eyes to ice. It took too long for him to answer. “Pardon, Lady Baelish. I meant no offense.”

A pause. “Nor did I.” Her gaze was unwavering, but not cruel any longer. Just indifferent. “And Lady Sansa, would be fine, if you please.”

He nodded. He didn’t know how to proceed, so he waited in the uneasy silence for her to continue. It didn’t take too long. He saw more than heard her sigh. “What would you have me call you then?”

Sandor held back a shrug. “What do you call others who work for you?”

“By their family name, more often than not.”

“You have your answer then, Lady Sansa.”

She nodded once. “As you will. Clegane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here we go!
> 
> In other news, I found out that I got rehired for a tenure track job next year and I am very excited and I just feel like shouting out to the void so there it is yaaaaay!! 
> 
> Ok next chapter Saturday, hopefully.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmm I like the end bit of this one. Again, one of the first conversations I imagined. Hope y'all enjoy!

**Sandor - One month later**

It took Sandor a while to finally let it go. He thought over every word they shared in her solar, over and over again, until he was sure he could recite their conversation perfectly. But after days of silent contemplation and avoiding the topic with Brandt and Alyn, Sandor decided to let it go. Her strange behavior, her cold attitude, the things she had said. Why would she want him to stay? He didn’t have an answer. And he was sure he never would.

The only real change from then on was that he ate all of his meals in the great hall. He didn’t need to hide any longer. That was the only time he ever really saw her and they had no reason to speak to one another.

Sigrin recovered almost immediately after his talk with Lady Sansa. She had her son thank Sandor for his help, but the boy tended to avoid him at all costs since then.

Edmund, on the other hand, was a near permanent fixture in the garden as they built, tilled and planted. They weren’t alone though. On the day that Arya had returned, she had brought back ten more men to work. Sandor and Brandt were handed three and found themselves in charge of the building of the glass gardens. 

It had taken just a few weeks, once the glass arrived. The blacksmith, Gendry, did the necessary work and with the plans and supplies from Norrey, it was all fairly simple. 

Lord Rickon was kind as he was young. He often stopped in the godswood to check on their progress. They were in the final stages of planting now. It was strange for Sandor. He’d only ever put dead things in the ground before. He learned how to plant and grow from his time at the isle, but he never tended the fields himself. Brandt and Alyn seemed to know what they were doing, as did the other men that worked with them. 

One of them was a wildling. Or at least, he used to be. Sandor learned that there was a settlement of former wildlings up in what used to be the Gift. Most of them returned North of the Wall that was no more after the winter. The settlement though, House Thenn, still remained in the Gift and was newly sworn to House Stark. The wildling man seemed normal enough, but there was something in his eyes that had Sandor remembering to keep his dagger at his belt each day.

Today, Sandor held back the dirt with his hands as Edmund leaned in and delicately dropped a bulb into the warm earth. They had a system now. Edmund was so eager and efficient that Sandor didn’t even mind. That was how his mother found them.

She came inside, looking too pure and clean for the patch of earth on which she stood.

“Mother!” 

The last time Sandor had spoken to her he was covered in mud. At least, now, it was only dirt. He stood and brushed off his hands on his breeches as best he could. Edmund’s little grimy face was bright as he ran about the garden introducing his mother to everyone.

“And this is Brandt and Alyn.” Edmund announced. “They’re Sandor’s friends.”

Both men bowed their heads, Alyn a second later than Brandt. She thanked them for their hard work. Brandt said some courteous thing or other while Alyn just turned bright red.

“Come! I want to show you.” Edmund grabbed his mother by the hand and led her on a tour of the garden. Her man, Ser Lothor Brune, he had learned, was never away from her side. He stayed a good few paces behind her all the while.

“Whoa.” Sandor looked back. Brandt had gone back to work, but Alyn still stood there, dazed, watching Lady Sansa as she walked away.

Sandor pushed his shoulder. “Get back to work.”

Alyn shook his head and staggered away.

“Hello!”

Sandor looked down. The little one. Arleth. He didn’t even see the boy come in with his mother. Even he looked like her. Though it looked like his eyes were brown, and his curls might have been a little darker than his older brothers’, the red in it shined in the sun through the glass ceiling.

He still looked up at Sandor with a bright smile in his tiny face. If he could barely talk to a six year old, Sandor knew he had nothing to say to a little tot. “Uh…let’s get you back to your mother.”

Sandor went to walk with him to follow the group, but Arleth’s little hand shot out in the air. Sandor looked at it. It was very small and clean. The boy shook it a little for emphasis. Sandor reached down with his big, grimy hand and let the boy grab onto it. They walked on ahead, Sandor was not sure of how slow to go, how tightly he should hold on when the boy tripped over a hole in the dirt and would have fallen had Sandor not been holding his little hand.

It only took a moment, but it felt like an eternity. They caught up with the others and Sandor let Arleth go so he could join his brother. 

He followed them for a little bit, listening to Edmund brag about what Sandor let him help with. “And do you see that mother? Those are going to be apple trees! Sandor let me pick the spot for them and everything!”

“That’s wonderful darling. I remember you told me that.” Sansa stopped in front of another sapling, a curious look on her face. “And what’s this?”

“Nothing.” Sandor told her quickly. “At least not yet.”

Edmund turned to look at him. “Sandor’s growing a lemon tree mother! I never even saw a lemon before!”

“A lemon tree?” He saw her eyes widen, briefly, before she put on an incredulous mask. And then she laughed. “That’s ridiculous. I haven’t seen a lemon since I was a girl.”

Sandor felt his back straighten. “Well it is springtime, my lady. Things tend to grow better in spring than they do in winter.” 

She turned to him, her mouth a severe line, like she was clamping it shut lest her jaw drop open. Sandor bent his head and turned back to his work.

As soon as he heard Edmund resume his tour, Sandor regretted his words. He knew he shouldn’t have spoken to her that way - but what she said, and then she laughed. It was almost like she was laughing at _him_.

He couldn’t imagine the price of the roots, saplings, bulbs and seeds that had come in from Essos by way of White Harbor. Norrey made it clear that it was a priority though, so he did not ask any questions. He only made sure that one thing in particular was on the list when Norrey ordered it all. Now he felt like a fool.

Perhaps he’d remembered wrong. Perhaps it hadn’t been lemon cakes that made her eyes bulge out of her head for whenever they were served in King’s Landing. Either way, Sandor made sure he was busy when she eventually made her way back out the door.

—

Sandor didn’t want to go to the great hall that evening. But his growling stomach told him otherwise. He waited as long as he could stand, hoping she would have finished and left by then. His hopes were dissipated, though, when he saw her standing outside the interior door to the great hall. 

“Clegane.” She raised her chin and her eyes brightened as she looked at him. “May I speak with you?”

 _Strange._ It was almost like she was waiting for him. “My lady?”

“It’s only, about before. In the garden.” She swallowed. “I wasn’t feeling my best today and I might have taken that out on you.”

“No don’t-“

She put up her hand. “I’ll make no excuses for my behavior. I was rude and I just - I just wanted to apologize.” 

She wrung her hands in front of her, but he didn’t have a moment to respond. There was a commotion inside. Sansa stilled and Sandor reached to open the door behind her.

He saw it immediately, in the frozen silence that washed over the hall. The wildling man. He had Arleth. A knife at the boy’s throat.

Sandor felt the little bird’s grip on his arm. Her choked cry.

Rickon approached the man, his arms outstretched, his sword untouched at his side. “My friend. What are you doing? Put the boy down.”

“Friend.” The man spat. “Call me friend? A few weeks of food and shelter isn’t enough to pay back what was taken from me. Lower your arms!” Arleth didn’t even struggle, his eyes wide and his chin high. The man was backing up to the wall, slowly coming in Sandor’s direction.

Rickon made his men do as they were bid. Sandor saw Arya moving slowly against the wall on the other side of the hall. But he could see it in her eyes. She knew she wasn’t in the right place.

“You can thank your king for this.” The man went on. “That Targaryen filth.”

Rickon tried to keep his calm. “If you speak of King Jon, my cousin is the reason your people passed under the wall and escaped the white walkers.”

“Your cousin killed my son! When he was no more than a Stark bastard. I saw it with my own eyes in the battle at Castle Black.”

Sandor knew that Rickon saw the hopelessness in the situation. “Whatever you plan on doing, don’t. This is just a boy. He knows nothing of our troubles. He is innocent in this.”

“Please.” The little bird begged behind him. “Sandor, _please_.”

“Your _cousin_ , he’s of Stark blood. He killed my son. Stark blood will be spilled in return.”

The next few moments were a blur. Sandor didn’t think. He just moved. 

—

“Here I am, once more, thanking you for my son.”

Sandor tried not to sigh, uncomfortable in the same chair he sat in only a month before. He didn’t know why she had to be so formal now. Why she had to invite him there just to thank him again. Had anyone else been placed such as he was at the incident, they would have just as easily come up behind the wildling man and cut his throat. He looked at his hand. There was still dried blood under his fingernails. His first kill in over ten years. 

He clenched his fist and looked back up at her. “Anyone would have done the same. I was just in the right place each time.”

“Yes well,” She went on. “That is what I wanted to talk to you about.” She gathered a breath. “I wanted to know if you perhaps may like to be…permanently in that place.”

He stayed silent in his seat across from her. She asked him to come speak to her that same night after she saw to her children. As far as he was concerned, she could say what she needed and just be done with it.

“Do you enjoy your work? In the garden?”

He shrugged. “It’s just fine.”

“Well,” She looked away. “I appreciate all of your work there. Edmund informs me of it every day. But, I do have a request of sorts.” She looked at him once more and sighed. “I’m sorry, I just have to say, you are too over qualified to tend the garden.”

“I don’t understand.” _Damn that boy._ “What are you saying?”

“That if tonight taught me anything, it's that I can only put my trust in a few people. And that your skills could prove useful - _have proved_ useful and -“

“I haven’t fought in years.”

“Which didn’t stop you from protecting my son.”

“I can’t remember the last time I held a sword.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t understand. My leg.”

“You can take the time you need to train. Practice every-“

“I’m too slow.”

“I was there when you saved Arleth. You were anything but slow!”

“No. I’m lame! I’m -”

“Please!”

He hadn’t even realized until the silence broke through. They’d been yelling.

“My sons. They are my life.” She clutched at her chest. She truly looked exhausted. “If you have no other argument than that of your being unable, which I know to be untrue, then I would have you guard them.”

Sandor closed his eyes and she went on. “I know you get on with Edmund. Arleth is just the sweetest boy. Sigrin. I know he is a little rough, but he will come around. Perhaps you could even help to train them. Eventually.”

Sandor unclenched his fists, took a breath and opened his eyes. “You want me this close to your sons. Everyday.”

“I do.” Sandor’s head shook slightly of its own accord. “I trust you and your abilities. Your skills. I would have no one else protect them.” Her voice became quiet was quiet. “I feel that it was meant to be, your coming here.”

 _How could she ask this of me?_ _Does she not remember?_ His cruelty. His words. His actions. His threats. It was like she’d forgotten every interaction they shared in the past.

“Will you do it?” She was asking him. 

If he couldn’t physically form the words of apology for all he had done to her in the past, he supposed doing as she wished would be enough, at least for the meantime. So he nodded.

She closed her eyes, relief washed over her features. “Thank you.”

There was a pause. A silence. She looked at him again.  “You’ll start tomorrow.” She phrased it like a question.

“I’ll need a sword.”

She nodded. “Of course.” She swallowed. “See to Gendry in the morning. He will see that you’re well provided.”

Sandor immediately hated himself for agreeing. He should have left when the wolf girl returned. He should have never even come. _Now it’s too bloody late._ He couldn’t stand the warmth of the room anymore. He stood, and she followed. She wrung her hands in front of her again. 

 _So I guess that’s it._ He went to turn.

“Clegane.” He looked at her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Her face had changed. Not her countenance, but the color. There was the slightest pink tinge in her cheeks. “Do you think things might have been different?” She opened her mouth, closed it again. “If I left King’s Landing with you, all those years ago?” Sandor’s stomach fell to the floor. “Have you ever thought of how things might have been different?”

If Sandor ever imagined her addressing him about that night, he thought it might be to admonish him for the way he had behaved, the way he treated her, which was little less than he deserved. Her question just made no sense. He had to clarify. “Have I ever thought about it?”

She nodded.

“No _.”_ He lied.

She gave no reaction. She only stood there still as stone.

Something made him step forward. “Although, if I had…” She straightened her shoulders even further. “…then, aye. I suppose things would have turned out differently."

She looked breathless. His eyes were fixed to hers. “How do you think?”

“We’d both be dead, most like.”

She took a breath, and something told him that she was hoping for a different response. “Why would you say that?”

“Its true. If we didn’t run into any trouble on the road, if the Lannister’s didn’t find us and drag us back, we would have made it to Riverrun. Don’t know where I would have gone, but you would have went to that bloody red wedding, like as not.” She just blinked. He took another step forward. “If we’d made it to Winterfell, they would have shipped me back to King’s Landing, married you off to some Bolton or Frey, eventually.” He saw her swallow. “You wouldn’t be here, now, in your family’s home.”

Her voice was quiet. “I don’t believe that.”

 _She couldn’t be so stupid._ “You wouldn’t have children.”

She blinked, the pink crept down to her neck, his eye followed. _Was she finally gaining weight?_ She seemed to be filling out her dress better than before. She hummed and Sandor’s eyes snapped back up to hers. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes were distant. “I suppose, I’ve always imagined it differently.”

“Imagine? What do you mean _imagine?_ ”

She looked back at him. There was a quick flash of fear in her eye before the door opened behind them. 

It was Brune. “Pardon my lady, but Arleth is calling for you again.”

He let in a draft from the hall that snapped Sandor back to attention. Sandor watched Sansa blink and saw the same thing happen to her.

“I’ll leave you. Goodnight.” Sandor went as fast as he was able. Through the hall, down the stairs, through the entryway and out the door.

 _I’ve_ always imagined _it differently._

 _Always imagined._ Did she regret not leaving with him on that wretched night? Sandor took the long way around to the barracks keep to cool himself down. _The little bird. She_ always imagined _it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like it! Let me know what you think! More Sandor coming soon. I think I'm gonna leave Sansa be for a bit. But, we'll see how things work out.
> 
> For anyone brave enough to watch tonight's episode of GOT, here's hoping Sansa has SOME sort of reaction when Brienne says she 'killed' the Hound. (Psh. I know. Wishful thinking.)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little Sandor filler, setting up the next few chapters that I am extremely excited about!!

“What are you doing here?”

The men were just getting to bed when he walked in. Sandor had tried to focus on what he was going to tell Brandt and Alyn about abandoning them with the garden work, but he hadn’t been expecting Alyn’s reaction when he saw Sandor enter the barracks.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I doing here’? I’m going to sleep.”

“But, they took your things.” The boy claimed from his pallet.

“ _They?_ ”

Brand sat up in his pallet. “Two servants came in to take your things.” He thankfully clarified. “They said you were moving to the great keep now. Is that true?”

 _What? The great keep?_ “She told me nothing about that.”

“What did she tell you then?”

Sandor sighed. “She wants me to guard her sons.”

Brandt’s lip curled up. “How could she not want that with the way you acted today?”

Sandor shook his head. He didn’t need to think about it any longer. 

“You mean, you get to be around _her_?” Alyn gaped. “Everyday?” 

Sandor rolled his eyes. “I’m guarding her sons. Not her.” He told Brandt and Alyn briefly of their conversation, Sansa’s insistence of his guarding her boys. He told them nothing about her puzzling questions. Her _imaginings_. 

Sandor said goodbye to Brandt and Alyn, wondering if it would be strange. He was usually with them from morning until night, each and every day. He supposed he would still see them at evening meals in the great hall, but part of him knew it would be different.

He went out the door and back the way he came to the great keep to figure out what was going on.

Where would he be staying? He couldn’t possibly have a room of his own, could he? And why did she send two men to collect his belongings? He could carry all of his _belongings_ in one hand on his own.

There were two guards at the entrance of the keep. He didn’t pay them any mind before. Sandor hoped they would have some answers. He just wanted to sleep.

Before he could even step up to ask, the door opened wide behind them and Lothor Brune came out.

“Ah. Clegane. I was just coming to find you.” Brune told him. “She said she didn’t tell you you’d have to be staying here from now on.” He waved Sandor inside and the guards closed the door behind them.

Brune took Sandor past the stairwell to a door in the corner of the hall that Sandor hadn’t noticed before. They walked through a well lit hallway as Brune told him the way of the job. Where and when to meet in the morning for the family’s breakfast. To grab something to eat for himself in the kitchens beforehand. 

Sandor realized he probably should have asked Sansa more questions, just as she should have given him more information. But no - they were both too focused on discussing what might have been.

Brune’s mind seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “I swear, she’s been so forgetful lately.” He stopped short and Sandor had to turn back to see him. The man’s eyes were wide. “Don’t tell her I told you that.”

Sandor agreed. He just didn’t understand why Brune was acting as a servant, coming to fetch him and show him where to stay. He just hoped that didn’t mean he would have to become the boys’ nursemaid.

They made a turn and went a little longer until Brune stopped at a door on his right. “This is me. Yours will be the last on the left. Just ahead.”

Sandor thanked him and went on his way to the end of the hall.

There were two doors. The one at the very end was cracked open and he could see another stairwell. From what he had seen of the upper floors, Sandor knew it must lead right up to the family quarters. He shut the heavy door tightly before opening up what would be his.

The room was not spacious by any means. It was sparse, but warm. Tiny, but not cramped. There was a wash basin on a small table. A small hearth filled with a bright fire. A small window. Everything was rather small. Aside from the bed. It took up a good portion of the room. Not only was it wide, but it looked like it was long enough for him, too.

There was an old trunk at the end of the bed. He opened it and inside were the few pieces of clothing he had gathered over the last month. His cloak that he didn’t have to hide under anymore. But if he was going to act as a guard, he would be needing better clothes.

Sandor undressed, washed up with the lukewarm water and got into the bed. The bedding was dry and much softer than he was used to. The last time he had a bed that fit him was King’s Landing, and only just so. This mattress left him a few extra inches to stretch out at the end. So curious. Almost as if it had been made for him.

Even though his body was tired, his leg ached, his mind found no such rest. His hand clenched at the thought of the man he killed. It was not as if he had promised himself or anyone else that he would never kill again. But it was strange to think of how easily and naturally it had come to him after so long a time. Perhaps guarding the boys, training with them even, may come just as easily. Their mother didn’t seem to have any doubts.

Sandor let out a breath and looked up at the ceiling. Besides his own thoughts in his head, the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth, he heard nothing. No other men snoring or mumbling in their sleep. Just silence. He would be sleeping alone again for the first time since he met Brandt and Alyn.

But then, he realized, he was still far from being alone. He barely slept that night, unable to stop himself from imagining the little bird somewhere above him, all alone in her bed.

—

Sandor rose early to find a bite to eat before visiting Gendry in the smithy. The man almost seemed glad that he would be staying on and working with the family. He got on well with Gendry, but he couldn’t say they were friends of any kind. Sandor was sure if Gendry ever called him a friend, he would have hell to pay from his wolf girl.

Together they found a suitable sword and belt and Sandor made his way back to the keep. It felt bizarre having a sword at his hip. He could barely remember a time without it before the Quiet Isle. He knew it would take some time getting used to the extra weight in balancing with his leg.

Sandor found the room Brune had mentioned the night before on the first floor of the keep. He knocked, then felt like a fool for doing so. It was Brune that opened the door.

The room was bright and warm and filled with her brood of sons.

“Hello Sandor!” Edmund’s voice was the first to greet him from the table at which he sat.

Sandor gave him a nod. “Good morning.”

Brune stood at one side of the door so Sandor took the other. He situated himself into a practiced stance that he hadn’t executed in a decade and looked straight ahead.

Sansa sat across the way, her back to the window. The morning sun shone through the window making her something of a silhouette from his perspective. She gave him a nod at he took her in. _Hells._ How was he supposed to watch over the boys when she was in the same bloody room?

He suppressed a sigh and took a look around the rest of the table. Sigrin sat to her right, his nose in a book. A maid was seated next to him, holding the babe. _Brandon, was it?_ The girl cooing into the little copper-headed thing’s face. Edmund and Arleth were at the other side of the table, consuming their porridge in front of them with great fervor, while Sigrin’s went cold in front of him as he read. Sansa's place at the table was empty.

So this was where she was every morning. Eating breakfast with her children. In a way, Sandor felt like he was invading some private, innocent moment. In all his years as personal guard for the Lannisters, he’d rarely felt that way. But in just a few minutes with the little bird and her children, he felt the urge to turn his head away, or better, leave the room all together to keep his ugly visage from marring their pure and peaceful moment together.

The maester entered then, through another door to Sansa’s right. He held a scroll out to her which she lifted with her delicate hand. He told the boys he would see them in the afternoon for their lessons and was one his way.

“It’s from Uncle Jon.” Sansa said wearily as she broke the red wax seal and unrolled the scroll.

“What’s he say?” Edmund mumbled with his mouth full of mushy oats.

Sandor saw Sigrin’s eyes flash up to his mother, though he did not move his nose from his book.

She shook her head as she read and looked at the words hopelessly. “Oh no.” She breathed and the scroll fell from her hands, rolling back up on itself as it hit the table.

“What?” Brune reacted immediately. “What is it?”

Sandor was concerned by her reaction as well, but wasn’t Brune overstepping the bounds of a guard? Either way, the only response she gave was to put her head in her hand.

Sigrin dropped his book and snatched up the scroll; his brothers, the maid and two guards waiting anxiously on the word from an eight year old.

“Uncle Jon’s coming!” Sigrin announced brightly.

“When?” Edmund shot out of his seat, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “When, Siggi! Let me see!!”

Sigrin stood up to run away from his brother and held the scroll high up in the air to read the rest. “Three months.”

Sandor looked back at Sansa. Her hands were in her lap now, but she wasn’t paying attention to her boys. _It can’t just be the King._ She wouldn’t have that reaction if it was him alone.

“Yes…” Sigrin hissed as he read on.

“What is it!” Edmund was positively bursting at the seams.

“Queen Daenerys will be joining him. And… _fifty_ others? Do we even have enough room for them mother?”

Sansa hadn’t moved. Her eyes were far off, moving about wildly in her head as she seemingly calculated what would need to be done in preparation for this visit. Three months seemed like a long time, but would they even have the provisions?

Edmund gasped. “Does that mean…” He questioned hopefully. 

Sandor felt his stomach turn when he realized it wasn’t just the king and queen the boys were excited to see.

Sigrin looked up from the scroll and his face changed in a way that Sandor had never seen on the boy. He smiled. “Yes.” He told his brother. “They’re bringing the dragons.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been too long! Here is another short Sandor chapter. Setting up a bit of a long scene next. I hope you enjoy. :)  
> (P.S. I am deliriously tired and falling asleep. I apologize for any typos. Let me know if there are any that might be glaringly obvious.)

**3 months later**

“Are you ill, Clegane?”

“No. Why?”

Brune turned back to attention and shrugged. “You look a little pale, is all.”

Pale. No shit he looked pale. Any moment now, there were going to be two fire breathing dragons landing not a hundred yards away from him.

They all walked to the yard together. The boys running ahead, Sandor slow behind them, keeping a pace with Sansa and Brune. Sigrin and Edmund were set on seeing the dragons, set on Sandor bringing them out along with Rickon and Arya to greet their kingly cousin. They somehow convinced their mother to come too, though she did not seem the least bit happy about it. But that was no change. She never seemed to be happy about anything.

She looked pale, too. Well, she was always pale. But perhaps just a little bit more than usual. She wore her heavy cloak like she always did, even though it was already warm in the morning sun. Sandor could feel his skin heating underneath the leathern doublet she had made for him. it wouldn’t be long before he was drenched in sweat, especially since he was expected to go near the beasts.

Their horses were brought out of the stables. All but Stranger. Thats the way it was. Sandor knew he was the only one who could truly handle his beast of a horse. He didn’t mind. Even at his age, now that he was back to his health, Stranger still made Sigrin and Edmund’s fresh ponies look like mere toys. They went out riding every couple of days. And on those days, Sandor didn’t have to be slow. He could race the boys if he truly wanted. But he never did. That was dangerous. That he was able to keep apace with them on horseback was all that mattered.

Stranger noticed the change in the air before Sandor. His ears flattening against his head, his black eyes widening, rolling back in their sockets. Sandor gripped onto his reins until his knuckles became translucent. A breeze filled the air. Heavy. Warm. The sound of _wings_. Sandor looked up just in time for the sky to darken. For the great black monster to fly low over the castle. Another, white against the bright sky, followed. They circled again. Sandor tried to swallow, but he couldn’t.

He heard how big they were. The black one could swallow a man whole now, they had said. Not as big as Balerion. Not yet. Besides, if the beast could swallow a man whole, was that not big enough? 

Sandor had no interest in getting any nearer to the unnatural things. But the boys had a completely opposite reaction. As the shadows passed and circled back south, the yard started its movement again. Excited clamor, some cheers even, especially from the boys at Sandor’s side. 

Movement caught Sandor’s eye and he turned just in time to see it. Brune was about to help Sansa to her horse and it seemed they were still frozen in the same spot. Brune stood slightly behind her as if to heft her up. Her left hand gripped the pommel of the saddle, the fingers of her right hand were digging thoroughly into his right forearm. Brune’s left arm was around her, holding at the small of her back. The movement he saw was a slight stumble. From Sansa as she let go of her grip on the saddle and clutched harder onto her man. His feet shifted, his arm pulling around her more tightly to keep her slight frame from falling.

They stayed that way for a moment. Sansa looking up into the now empty sky. Brune watching her, making sure she was steady. Sansa looked at Brune then, and there was some communication in their eyes, so strangely deep and knowing that Sandor felt the urge to turn away. He didn’t. All he felt was a prickling at the back of his neck. Sansa shook her head slightly, as if answering an unasked question and the moment was broken. They let go of one another, both steady now on their own two feet. 

“I’m sorry boys, but you’ll not be going out to see them after all.” Sansa told Sigrin and Edmund calmly, assuredly. “Perhaps Uncle Jon can bring you to visit them later, but not just now. Not just yet.”

The boys got so riled up, so angry and loud, so quickly that Sandor couldn’t help his reaction.

“Enough.” He heard himself snap.

The boys stopped. Their eyes wide as they looked up at him.

His eyes flashed to Sansa’s. _Shit._ He needed to make sure he’d done the right thing. 

She was looking at him. Her eyes wide as anything. But Sandor had the feeling her mind was off again. She had that look. That shocked, dazed and barely present expression that Sandor had gotten used to over the past three months. It happened often when she looked at him. As if she was somewhere else, in her mind at least. He wondered where she was now. 

He turned his attention back to the boys. “Your mother told you no. Now that’s the end of it, isn’t it?”

He didn’t know when he became enforcer along with child minder, but the boys listened. And neither Sansa nor Brune gave him the impression that he has stepped out of line.

Sandor didn’t want to admit it, but he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to ride out to the dragons. At least not yet. 

So they waited. The boys whined pathetically as they watched their aunt and uncle ride out the gates with their wolves to greet the king. But one look from Sandor and they clamped their mouths shut once more.

It took some time, but soon, the wolves returned. But now there were three. A white one, flanked by the grey and the black. 

Horses came in then. He was the first rider Sandor noticed, from behind the formal line Sansa had arranged her family into. He was a strong, long faced man that Sandor recognized as the Stark bastard. No. Not bastard. Not with that crown on his head. Then he saw the woman next to him. _Queen Daenerys. The Mother of Dragons. Breaker of Chains. The Savior of our Lands. The most beautiful woman in the entire world._

They said many things about her. And she was beautiful. Her long silver hair in an intricate braid trailing down her back. _Silver._ He huffed to himself as his eyes turned to the back of Sansa’s head. He preferred copper. 

Sandor knew they were bringing fifty others. Retainers. Unsullied. Kingsguard. He didn’t pay them any mind. Not when he saw _him_.

How he managed to ride a horse, Sandor could never understand. How he managed to dismount on his own must have been painful, to leap from that height. But he was the first one to break from the pack. The first one to come toward Sansa’s line, waddling as he did. He’d barely changed since Sandor had last seen him. He was less a nose, but still small and stunted as anything.

“Hello, wife!” The imp smiled brightly as he got closer to Sansa. Sandor watched as his eyes took in her brood, all four boys lined up neatly to greet them. The imp’s eyes flashed back up to Sansa’s. “And these are all of your lovely bastards, I presume?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...well??


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sick as a dog on a Friday night, might as well post a new chapter! Happy Memorial Day this weekend to all you fellow Americans!!
> 
> I hope you like this bit. Keep in mind: if it seems like this is all a little far fetched and confusing, that's kind of the point!! Remember, Sandor is a complete outsider. He doesn't know what is true and what isn't. He's just an observer left to make his own assumptions. You'll see, you'll see.

Sandor’s arm was still burning from where her hand had touched him. Sigrin had been standing in front of him in the yard, next to his mother. For once, Sandor didn’t feel the pain in his leg. He brushed Sigrin aside and made to step up to the imp and kick him back over top of the wall. But her hand had stopped him. She grabbed his arm, her grip weak, but her hand warm. Too warm, given that he could feel it so immediately through his doublet and tunic. _She is ill. She must be. She’s burning up. Then why is she always wearing that damned cloak?_ He’d frozen underneath his thoughts and her gaze, threatening, warning him to stop. So he did.

“Ah. Dog!” Sandor turned his attention back to the speck on the ground. “I’d heard you had taken up residence here. I bet you like it better under your new masters compared to the old ones, hmm?”

“Clegane is as much as a dog as my children are bastards, Lord Tyrion.” She dropped her hand to her side as the King and Queen were making their way over to the scene. “I would appreciate if you never to refer to any of them as such again.”

“I wouldn’t have spoken so soon if I were you, Lady Sansa. Or should I say, Lady Lannister?”

The imp raised himself to his toes and dropped back down to his heels almost excitedly. Sandor looked at her again. If there was any color left in Sansa’s face, it all vanished at his words.

—                 

They were in the private dining area now, away from the rabble of the rest of the keep. Sansa, her brother, sister, her children, the maester, even Gendry was in attendance.The king, queen, imp and three others that they had brought with them filled up the rest of the table. Jorah Mormont sat protectively next to the queen, his mass taking up some of her portion of the table. 

Lord Rickon sat directly across from the girl. Sandor was amazed the boy managed to get the his fork into his mouth, the way he was continued to stare at her. The way Shireen Baratheon had looked at Sandor when she first saw him was an all new experience. She gazed at his face in wonderment instead of horror, disgust or even pity. He knew this could only be because of the hardened grey skin that cracked over half of her own face. She’d probably never thought she’d see anyone worse off than herself.

With her, there was an older man. Ser Davos Seaworth. A grey man who looked years older than Sandor suspected he actually might be. He got on well with Rickon and Sandor figured the two must have known each other somehow.

They’d finished their mid day meal, their pleasant talk and the room was tensing up second by second. Sandor watched Sansa intermittently and saw the way she deliberately tried to avoid looking at Tyrion across the way, barely touching the food laid out for her. Arya on the other hand sat taught as a bowstring, staring intently at the imp for a better part of the hour.

Sandor just wanted to take the boys and go. He needed to be out of the room and away from the uneasiness of all this mess.

As if reading his thoughts, the imp clapped his hands together and said, “Well, let’s get to it shall we?”

The room went quiet. Rickon shifted in his seat, his chair creaking under him as he turned uncomfortably in Sandor’s direction. “Clegane, could you take the boys out to -“

“He can stay,” Sansa’s voice rang clearly.

Sandor froze. Everyone in the room was watching either him or her. He took notice of the wolfgirl’s eyes boring heavily in his direction.

“My lady,” Tyrion started. “We are going to discuss some _personal_ affairs.”

Her face was calm. “Some of which involves him, does it not?”

 _Involves…involves_ me _? What?_ Tyrion nodded once. 

“Then he’ll stay,” She said once more.

“Rickon. Would you take them for me?” She begged her brother. “This involves nothing of Winterfell. I promise.” 

The Lord of Winterfell nodded before standing. Sandor watched in envy as Rickon, Shireen, Davos, Arya and Gendry all shuffled out of the room with the children. Mormont merely stood, took a place against the wall behind his queen.

When the door closed behind the group, Sandor gave a side look to Brune to his right who only gave a minimal shrug as he looked ahead. The five people remaining at the the table now sat Across from one another. The rulers of Westeros squared off against Sansa and her maester.

“We might as well get started with it, Sansa, if you don’t mind,” King Jon said softly.

She nodded stiffly. 

Tyrion piped up, “As it turns out my lady, your children _are_ bastards.” Sandor could tell it was something he had been holding in since the moment he sat down, his retort. His explanation for such a ridiculous assertion.

“Yes, as you accused them of in the yard which I think was highly unnecessary, my lord,” She snapped. Sandor thought Tyrion might have looked ever so slightly cowed by the sharpness of her voice. But he blinked and the look was gone. “Tell me how?” Sansa somehow managed to snarl while keeping her face impassive as ever.

“Well, my darling wife, we are still married. As you can see,” He gestured to his small body, “I am still alive and well. But even if I weren’t, the contract of which you have provided - proving our annulment - is a fraud. Baelish must have drawn it up himself, therefore it has no legal standing for your marriage to him.” 

“The woman you said examined you was not even a septa,” Queen Daenerys offered kindly. “We do have records, and the name that is on Baelish’s document is not in any record of the Faith of the Seven, as it should be.”

“So she lied, of course.” Tyrion claimed. “No doubt Baelish paid her handsomely for her fraudulence.”

The imp turned his attention toward Maester Glenn. “Lady Lannister and I were fully married in the eyes of the gods.” Sandor felt his fists clench at the thought of it. He fought the urge to throttle the little man across the table. “Which, I’m sorry to say, makes your entire _marriage_ a lie.” 

“It’s as if it never happened.” King Jon announced. His voice was cold when he looked at Sansa across from him. But Sandor swore he could see a glint in his eye, just for a second. If Sansa saw it, Sandor wouldn’t have known.  

She remained still as stone, though her voice might have been just a fraction less confident. “I’m sorry, but I can’t believe that.”

“Maester Glenn?” Tyrion prompted, folding his fingers neatly on the table in front of him.

The maester looked at Sansa reluctantly. “It is true that if your marriage to Lord Tyrion was indeed consummated, then you would remain a true wife to him.”

“Oh I’m sure she’s tried to forget,” Tyrion went on. “But there were only two people there on our glorious wedding night and both of us will admit that our marriage was indeed consummated. Isn’t that right, _wife_?”

Sansa hadn’t reacted. She hadn’t moved. In the silence that followed, Sandor wondered if anyone would take their eyes off of Sansa long enough to realize that he slipped out the door. 

“Well there’s only the question, then,” Daenerys announced. “I know its a little uncomfortable, but Tyrion claims your marriage was consummated on your wedding night. Lady Sansa, was it or no?” He couldn’t be sure, but it looked almost as if the queen gave Sansa a little nod, encouraging her to answer truthfully, perhaps.

In the silence that followed, Sandor’s own voice rang loud in his head. _Why am I standing here? Why would she want me here? Why would she want me to listen to all of this shit?_

And then his thoughts changed. _Married to the imp?_ _No. She can’t be._

Her whole future would be hanging on her answer. _Don’t say yes._ He wanted to tell her. _Don’t say yes. Lie through your teeth or you’ll be stuck to him for the rest of your miserable life._ Just as he was imagining all the ways he could kill Tyrion for her and make it look like an accident, she said it.

“Yes.”

It was as if all of the air was sucked out of the room with one word. Sandor swore he never heard such unutterable silence. He could see that Sansa was biting the inside of her cheek, the only change in her face.

“Good,” Tyrion clapped his hands once more. “Now that that is all settled…”

_Settled. Settled? So she’s married to the imp? What does this mean? Is he going to take her back to King’s Landing?_

_Shit._ Would Sandor have to go? He had an image of himself back in the capital, ushering another Lannister child around. _Gods no._ She couldn’t give herself to him again. She wouldn’t.

Sansa cleared her throat. “What does this mean for my children?”

He saw Brune shift his weight to his right. The first sign of discomfort the man gave throughout this whole situation.

“Rickon is just becoming a man in his own right,” Jon weighed in. “I talked to Tyrion about it, and we agreed that it would be best that you remain here. With Rickon. The boys,” He paused, and as an afterthought, “If that’s what you want.”

Sansa looked at Tyrion. Back to Jon and back again to Tyrion. If her mind was anything like Sandor’s then she must have been wondering if this was all some kind of sick jape.

The imp spoke up again. “I’m sure you would prefer the King’s Landing Daenerys, Jon and Aegon have created over the one you left so long ago. But your kingly cousin is right. Your children are Starks. Starks belong in Winterfell, so I’m told. Besides, they would miss me too much.” He tilted his head to the king and queen. 

“But the children. They’re-“ She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “They’re what, now? Stones? Snows?”

“Yes well,” Daenerys started. “Jon and I discussed that. Tyrion?”

The imp patted at his chest and dug in his pockets until he procured a roll of parchment, sealed up tightly with the red wax of the Targaryen sigil. He pushed it across the table to Sansa who merely stared at it, her hands motionless in her lap.

“What is this?” She asked, her voice just above a whisper.

“A royal decree,” Daenerys announced proudly. “Officially marking all of your children born by Petyr Baelish, trueborn.” 

Jon cleared his throat. “There is only one way this will be possible. According to our laws, they must be named after an existing house.”

 _According to our la- What buggering law is that?_ The head of House Baelish just left the room. Sigrin. He was the heir. _This is the most contrived conversation I’ve ever heard._ He could see the realization cross Sansa’s face. None of this could be accurate.

Daenerys picked up, “And as the head of House Baelish is…deceased…well-”

“They’ll be called Stark.”

At her cousin’s words, Sansa gave the first visible reaction of the meeting. Her head snapped toward his and when her eyes widened, the king gave her a nod. He’d never seen her move so quickly. In one second, the roll of parchment was lying still in the middle of the dark wooden table. The next, it’s wax was already being cracked by her slender fingers. Her blue eyes scanned over the words so quickly he thought she would go crosseyed.

Sandor watched her as she got to the end. A little shake of her head. She started at the top again and read more slowly, a little crinkle appearing between her brows. When she got to the end this time, she looked up. Sandor could see the question on her lips.

“Can you really do this?”

Jon and Daenerys gave each other a look. “Yes,” The dragon queen told her simply. “Yes, we can do that.”

“Wh-why?” She stammered. He never saw this Sansa stammer. “Why would you do this for them?”

The queen’s voice was clear, warm. “In all that you have done for the kingdoms since winter has ended, supporting Jon and for Harrenhall, it is the very least we could do.”

It was quiet for another moment. A moment where Sandor didn’t know what to think.

Sansa’s voice broke through the silence. “Thank you.”

“Speaking of Harrenhall…” Tyrion muttered.

“Right,” Sansa straightened, her face set back to the studied mask. “Maester Glenn?”

The man next to her dug in his sleeve and came out with a parchment of his own. He handed it to Daenerys. “The rights to Harrenhall, your grace.”

_Harrenhall? What would Sansa have to do with Harrenhall? How is it hers to give away?_

“You’re sure?” The queen asked.

Sansa looked at the paper in the queen’s hands just as she had looked at his silhouette when he had arrived. “It was never mine. It should never have been his. I have no use of it.”

Daenerys nodded solemnly and handed the parchment to Tyrion who promptly tucked it away.

“Well, if there’s nothing else…” The imp started.

“There is,” Sansa’s voice rang clear. “Have you forgotten? The other matter I wrote to you about?”

“Oh. Right,” The little man dug in his pockets once more like he hadn’t forgotten, but rather that he couldn’t care less about the matter Sansa had in mind. He handed Sansa a small scroll, followed by another piece of rolled up parchment.“It should all be in order.”

Sandor noticed the silver-haired girl’s head tilt up and he looked at her. She smiled at him. A kind thing. As far as Sandor was concerned, it was the first time she looked at him all day. He had to admit, she _was_ something to look at, even if the purple shade of her eyes was the least bit off putting. He was distantly aware of the contented murmurings Sansa made as she read over this new letter. It wasn’t until she said his name that he snapped to attention.

“Clegane,” He turned to her. “Could you come here for a moment?”

Sandor glanced at Brune who paid him no mind. He tried his best to hide his limp as he took the few steps to where she sat, holding out the small raven scroll for him. He took it from her hand and tried to ignore the warm shock he felt as his fingertip grazed against hers. He could see that the scroll was older and was careful as he unrolled it. 

He recognized the handwriting immediately. The sharp, slanted, hurried angles of his words. _Elder Brother._

“Where did you find this?” Sandor heard his voice rasp. He didn’t know who he was asking. He just wanted an answer.

“This Elder Brother of yours sent one to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms,” King Jon told him. “The old Grand Maester held on to everything, it seemed. When Sansa asked for proof of the scroll, Grand Maester Samwell got right to it. Took him a while, but he found it. Found out Sansa’s tale was true, after all.”

 _Sansa’s tale?_ Sandor looked at Sansa. He swore he could see the points in her cheeks turning pink. Only then did he realize how closely he was standing over her. He took a step away.

She looked up at him, the color fading away from her face once more. “I wrote to Jon about what you and Arya told me. About the fight at the inn. Her leaving you. Quiet Isle. And how it was never even possible for you to be at Saltpans when it happened.”

Sandor found himself nodding, still so utterly confused as to why they were discussing this at all.

“And then I sent a letter to Brienne,” Sansa announced to the rest of the room.

“Brienne of Tarth?” Daenerys asked. “Jon never told me that.”

Sansa nodded, turned to Tyrion. “She said Jaime is still waiting for your visit to the Sapphire Isle, by the way,” She shrugged. “I just wanted to be sure before I came to you all. She told me that she did visit the Quiet Isle, as I remembered from our talk. She said how she had spoken to this Elder Brother and he had told her the same thing. That the Hound was dead. Sandor Clegane was at rest,” He watched her long neck as she swallowed. He could hear Elder Brother’s voice in his head, saying the same words.

Sansa went on. “She and Gendry’s stories are completely paralleled. It was another man altogether who had attacked Saltpans. Gendry watched Brienne kill him and then saved her from one of his friends.” Sansa slowly turned in her seat to face Sandor once more. “He had your helm.”

She could have bloody well been speaking high Valyrian for all the good her words and explanation offered him. He was so completely lost.

Sansa turned back to her audience. “Besides, even if it weren’t already clear that it wasn’t Clegane, Brienne remembered a man at the Quiet Isle.  A man, larger than her, digging graves. His face covered.” He watched her swallow again. Her words softer than before. “She said he had a limp.” All at once he felt the faces of the people in the room turn to him, and look down at his bum leg. 

He shifted his weight to his good leg, his words more harsh than he had anticipated. “What does this mean?” _The fuck is going on!_ That’s what he really wanted to ask. _Who is this woman she was talking about? How did she know him? And Jaime?_ Lannister? _What did he have to do with any of this? What does_ Gendry _have to do with this? Why was any of this being discussed in the first place!_

“We needed a new document drawn up to make your innocence official,” King Jon finally told him. “Sansa?”

Sansa looked at the other, newer paper in her hand, back up at Sandor, then handed it to him.

He unrolled it. He could barely hear their voices as he read the clean, swirling ink on the page.

“It will just need his signature, is that right?” Sansa asked.

Tyrion muttered a confirmation. Maester Glenn slid down a pot of ink, a quill. Sandor took it up read the document once more before he signed it.

_Let it be known that Sandor of House Clegane is hereby renounced from any guilt or blame and therefore shall receive no punishment for the atrocities committed at the village at Saltpans…_

It went on listing dates, events, names of witnesses. This Brienne person, Sansa herself. Gendry. Even the wolfgirl’s name was listed. There were signatures from the Grand Maester and High Septon and finally an empty space left for him to fill.

It had been so long since he’d written anything, but he managed to keep his hand from shaking with all the people watching. Still, he dripped a nice fat black stain right before the S in his name. Those two words on parchment looked no better than Edmund's in his lessons with Maester Glenn.

He straightened. He didn’t know what to say. All he managed was a disturbingly meek ‘thank you’.  Sansa took the document from him when he finished and passed it over to Maester Glenn. 

Sandor wanted to say something. Something more than just those two, weak and empty words. But before he could even wrap his head around what had just occurred, everyone at the table was moving, gathering themselves up, announcing plans of getting rest before the night’s big feast. And without a second look from Sansa, Brune or any of the others, he was left in the room alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp! Lots of Sandor introspection and something a little more exciting next chapter!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my it's been too long! I just want to thank you all for reading this thing thus far and for all the comments you leave that keep me writing. Honestly it means more than you know. 
> 
> Okay. I hope you aren't mad at me for this. Creep!Sandor coming your way.

Sandor had always thought that Saltpans would be an issue that someday he would have to resolve. But he always expected for that to happen on his own, since as far as he knew, the only one to know the truth was Elder Brother. But no. There were more witnesses than he could have ever imagined. The wolfgirl, for starters. He couldn’t guess why Arya would speak for him, though he knew Sansa had probably cajoled her in some way. Gendry was a part of it too. _Why had he never told me_ , he wondered. The two men talked once in a while and he supposed something like this wouldn’t just come up in polite conversation. But still. He’d known the man for near four months, and never once did he tell him any of this. 

This woman Brienne whom he’d never met seemed to have the biggest story to tell. She had met Elder Brother! Spoken to him about Sandor even. And then she claimed she saw him there too? 

Why would these people speak up for him? They owed him nothing. Not a thing in the world. 

In thinking about the others, his mind kept circling around one thing. The one thing he did not want to think about for it was all just too much to comprehend.

But there was no putting it off any longer. At the core of this whole ordeal was Sansa. It was Sansa who investigated the truth. Sansa who contacted the bloody king himself to get to the bottom of the problem. Sansa who had the grand maester search for Elder Brother’s original letter. Sansa who made her sister, her smith and this strange warrior woman tell her their stories. She’d sent out letters, collaborated the tales and put all of it together. All in defense of him. Sandor Clegane. The bloody hound. _Why? Why did she do this?_

He needed answers. But he didn’t know where to start.

He went to find the boys when he left the room. They were with Rickon. And Shireen Baratheon. 

“You can leave them with me Clegane.” Lord Rickon had said. “I’ll see them back to their rooms to get ready for the feast.”

The Warden of the North shifted his eye over to the girl who was crouched to the floor, discussing something apparently enthralling with Edmund. _Hm. So that’s why he was staring at her earlier._ Sandor tried not to shake his head. The boy was using his nephews as bait for the Baratheon girl. Sandor only wished he hadn’t been so surprised.

The first thing he thought to do was find Gendry. He was in the smithy, as usual, and Sandor asked him about the situation outright. Gendry didn’t seem surprised. He gave Sandor a look but kept at his work. He told him more about the night at the inn. About this Brienne woman. The two men they had killed. And his hound’s head helm.

“What I remember most is the anger.” Gendry told him. “The absolute rage and hatred that built in me when I saw the man in that helm.” He put down his hammer. “Thought it was you.” He looked up at Sandor, there was no way to tell what he was thinking, his blue eyes blank, lost in memory. “Wanted to kill you myself. Imagining all the things you might have done to her when you took her.”

Sandor ground his teeth. “If you’re going to make me defend myself for things I haven’t done-“

Gendry cut him off, calmly. “I know you didn’t, that you never would. That hurting Arya was never a part of your plan. It’s just not who are.” He took a breath. “Look, I never even told Arya any of that. I know I have to now, but if you could just-”

“When do I ever speak to the wolfgirl?”

Gendry raised his eyebrows and gave a little nod as if to say, good point. 

He left Gendry to his work. The questions roiling in his mind were at least partly answered. 

When he stepped through the doorway, though, he didn’t know where to go. It was the first time he didn’t have anything to do. Usually when he got a small break with Sigrin and Edmund at their lessons and Arleth with the nurse for his nap, Sandor tended to stick around the area, get some food more like than not.

But with the whole afternoon ahead of him, he felt suddenly weightless. Like the purposeful strings guiding him through the day to day had been cut. He wasn’t sure he liked it, this feeling. It left him edgy.

He found himself moving in the direction of the godswood. He passed through the familiar path in the dense, overgrown earth, feeling the newness of spring all around him, in every step he took. Sandor avoided the heart tree yet again and found his way to the glass garden he had helped to build. It had been a few days since he’d seen Brandt or Alyn around. A few weeks since he really had time to speak to either of them about much. He had a fleeting thought that it might be nice to talk to someone about what was happening. But when he pushed through the door, the garden was empty. He made his way through the damp air, looking at how the plants had grown.

Three months since he had left for his new position. He’d been back, but never really paid attention to how all of the plants were truly starting to bloom. 

And in that three months, Sansa Stark - Baelish - Lannister? - was working to prove his innocence. He didn’t understand. It was nothing he had asked for. A new thought came to him. Perhaps she just didn’t want someone in her employ known for such horrifying acts, especially if that person was supposed to be protecting her children. That was what made most sense to Sandor. It was the only way he could rationalize it in his mind.

He looked down to find himself standing over the lemon sapling he had planted. It was starting to look more like a real tree now. Sort of. It had grown a few more branches, maybe another foot in height. It had some bright green leaves, but no flowers yet. And certainly no lemons.

Sandor suddenly felt ridiculous for ever thinking that he might do something like plant a lemon tree for her. That she had written all over creation just to clear his name made him feel even more pathetic. But why did she care that much? She was always so stoic with her cool, studied indifference. The thought of her sending letters across the country to people he didn’t know, just to discuss him, just to clear his name - it left him dizzy.

Maybe it was the heavy air inside the garden, the warmth. Perhaps it was the way the sun seeped its way through the thick glass and condensed water droplets covering the inner sides of the panes. More than likely though, it was the thoughts in his mind that he just wanted to shut off. He had a couple hours. No reason he couldn’t take a page from Arleth’s book and close his eyes.

-

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when he awoke. Perhaps two hours, from the angle of the sun coming through the ceiling. Sandor couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that he was covered in dampness. His own sweat from the heat and the moisture of the air. The garden was still empty when he got up and left.

When he opened the door, though the godswood air was still close, the crispness made him open his eyes wider. Or perhaps that was the nap. 

The nap. Sandor shook his head and wiped a hand over his face. He had never taken a bloody nap in his life. Not unless he counted the days he was in and out of consciousness. He took a deep breath. Perhaps he could find Sansa before the feast. But it already might have been too late.

He strode down the path, still trying to form more appropriate words of gratitude for Sansa, when he heard her. He paused in his tracks, just in sight of the heart tree, as she came into view. She was with her maid. Marta, her name was. A young thing, small with mousy brown hair. They were headed toward the heart tree, the hot spring fed pool in front of it. And he couldn’t explain why, but he ducked, moving behind a thick tree and crouching down beneath the overgrown bush next to it.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

He was allowed to be there. There was no reason he wouldn’t be permitted in the godswood. Why was he hiding? But then he thought of the time. _It must already be her time for her praying._ He’d completely forgotten. They always closed the godswood off for some time every evening for Lady Sansa’s evening prayers. Why was his automatic response to hide! Surely announcing himself before she got started would have been more fitting.

_Get up. Get up before she starts or it will be worse._

Just as he was about to rise to his feet, he saw Sansa reach the edge of the pool through the leaves of the bush. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen yards away, but he could see she was barefoot. And then the unthinkable happened. Marta helped to remove her robe. Her _robe_. And underneath. _Oh hells._

He tried to close his eyes, autonomous shame already rattling through him, but he couldn’t. It was despicable enough, staring at the naked form of his lady holding onto her maid’s hand as she descended carefully into the hot pool in front of her. It was the way her pale skin stretched so tightly over the swollen bump in her belly that made him feel thoroughly vile.

The word’s were roaring in his head. She’s pregnant. She’s pregnant. She’s pregnant! How had he not known that she was bloody _pregnant_!

Sandor watched the waterline rise over her legs, her inflated stomach, her heavy teats, until she and her pregnancy were hidden away again. She gave a clear, low moan of obvious relief, pleasure even, as she settled into the heat of the water.

How had he not known? It all seemed to make sense now. Every little thing he had noticed about her over the past couple of months. The fullness that had returned to her face. How she rarely touched her food in the morning. The cloak she wore outside. Her constant need for someone to lean on, Rickon or Brune always there.

A thought flashed through his head. _Could it be Brune’s?_

He remembered Brune’s overprotective nature with Sansa. How he was never far from her side. That strangely intimate look they shared in the yard. The way he shifted when her children were mentioned in the meeting earlier. That could be why they were always together. Was he more than just her guard?

He tried to shake the thought away. He didn’t know why his mind went there so quickly. At the very least, Brune had to know she was with child. Marta knew. He couldn’t guess if Rickon or Arya knew. He had too many questions. Questions that were truly none of his business to even think about getting the answers to. But nonetheless, they rocked through his mind in a whirl as he watched her submerge completely under the hot water.

There were other things too now. The way she always disappeared around this time. She must always come to the woods for this. He just thought she was praying. She was still wearing heavier dresses, even though the weather had warmed. Sandor just thought it might be because she didn’t have any summer dresses or the fabric to make them. But now he realized she was still just trying to hide her stomach. No. Not trying. _Succeeding._ He hadn’t known. He never even would have thought this would be possible.

It was quiet for a moment. Sansa was still under the water. _A moment too long._ Just as Marta began to look concerned herself, Sansa emerged. Her hair was darkened from the water, slick to her scalp. Her back was to Sandor as she took in Marta’s look of worry.

“I’ll be alright Marta, truly. You know its the only thing that helps.” 

 _Helps? Helps what?_ He found the answer in the thought of her. The way her face always looked tight, impassive. Perhaps this pregnancy was a difficult. Difficult to hide and perhaps painful to bear. He thought of her face as she descended into the water just before. This must be how she makes herself feel better. 

The maid fondled a stray thread of the robe in her arms. “I just don’t think I should leave you alone so long anymore, my lady.”

“Half of an hour is not long, Marta. I will be just fine. Like always.”

It was a dismissal Sandor understood, just as Marta had. Only when he watched the girl turn and disappear toward the gate of the Godswood did Sandor realize what was going to happen. 

Sansa was going to be alone in the pool for half an hour. He was stuck. He would have to remain still and silent and wait until Marta returned to retrieve her.

Slowly, he moved out of the crouch and silently got to his knees. He knew he could stay still, keep quiet. But he wasn’t certain that he was completely free from view. He was sure, if she looked hard enough in his direction, she would eventually see him through the thicket of leaves and tangled branches of the bush. If he could see her from there… 

There was nothing he could do. Nowhere to turn. He saw her stretch her arms out to her sides as she swam slowly, weightlessly, to the other end of the pool and back again. She went under once more, this time for a longer time than before. Just as Sandor was getting unsettled, she came up for air. She breathed deep and even lungfuls before settling herself gracefully at the edge of the pool with her back to the tree. She gripped onto a nearby root of the weirwood and settled in.

This creature seemed so different than the woman he knew out of the water. This woman was peaceful, content and clearly enjoying herself in her activity. The Sansa he knew was so different. He supposed, now, he knew why.

He remembered Cersei when she was pregnant. A radiating glow seemed to pulse throughout her, changing her already remarkable features to something indescribable. While Sansa would always be beautiful, it was clear that this pregnancy was not comparable to Cersei’s. The child growing inside of her, rather than give her new life, seemed to suck it all out of her.

The skin over her belly was so stretched, dark lines marked on her sides, it had looked truly painful. While her face looked fuller, her naked limbs were so thin, so fragile looking. He couldn’t guess how far along she was. He didn’t know such things. Not near full term, not yet. He didn’t know why his first thought was Brune. Surely, the child still be her husbands. If the child was Littlefinger’s, it couldn’t be any less than four? _No._ Five months?

Sansa muttered something to herself. Sandor left the dregs of his mind and paid close attention to her. Her face was clear. Not so much impassive, as it tended to be whenever he was around her, nor was it blank. It was as if she was trying to see something in front of her, something she was trying to bring into focus, something she was trying to understand. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, but clear over the distance.

“Sigrin Stark,” she said simply. He saw her lick her lips briefly. “Edmund Stark. Arleth Stark.” She paused and covered her mouth with her hand, and after a moment, “Brandon Stark.” He heard her murmur. 

When she pulled her hand away, her face had changed so completely. If Sandor wasn’t already on the ground he was sure his knees would have given out. She was smiling. A slow thing that morphed her entire sallow face into something so bright, so beautiful, that it felt like a kick right to the gut. The shape of her mouth altered her so totally that even the girl herself seemed to be shocked by it. He didn’t realize it until then, but he hadn’t seen her smile since he came to Winterfell. Not even once.

“Brandon Stark,” she said again, loud and clear. She let out a soft sound between a sigh and a laugh. But her face froze and he saw her lips move silently. She whispered something, too quiet for him to hear. 

“Bran,” she muttered once more, loud enough for him to hear. “Bran.” 

As Sandor watched her from afar, he saw it all change within seconds. Her eyes closed tightly and her brow furrowed. She gnashed her teeth together with an audible click. He watched her shudder, tighten her grip on the white weirwood root. And then, suddenly, she was weeping. Fat tears falling heavy from her blue eyes, down her cheeks, her neck, and into the water.

Even after all these years, he still felt uneasy around tears. He’d listened to brother’s on Quiet Isle cry at different times through the winter. Some, when they realized that there was no escaping the snow. Others, when their closest friend succumbed to the illness. Or worse and more pitiful, when they had gotten it themselves.

Deep in the shadows of his memory, Sandor felt something akin to a remembrance of tears falling from his own eyes. He had been drowning underneath a sea of milk of the poppy as Elder Brother worked to heal him, so these memories were never clear. It made him uneasy to think of such things, in any event.

But as he sat there and watched Sansa Stark cry, just moments after she had smiled so brightly, he didn’t know how to feel. His immediate reaction was to look away, to block out the noise of her sobs with his own thoughts. No one should be seen weeping. It is a private thing, a shameful thing, no matter the reason. But as it continued, he felt a strange tug in his chest. He made himself look up and see her. He didn’t know why, but he had an urge to try and comfort her. Such a thought would be ridiculous now, of course. 

 _Imagine that._ A bloody beast of a man creeping up on her as she cried, naked in the pool in front of her gods. He couldn’t. But he didn’t like that she was on her own, that she was suffering through what ever she was suffering though alone. 

After another few moments, her tears slowed, her sobbed quieted. She took a deep breath and wiped her free hand across her face. She closed her eyes once more.

“I know you’re there,” Her voice rumbled deep in her throat. The hair on Sandor’s neck stood up. She could see him. She knew he was watching. _Hells, fuck,_ why did he hide? Why didn’t he come out of hiding when he had the chance? Now it was too late, and she found him. She could feel him there, watching like some deviant. 

But Sansa hadn’t changed. Her face still screwed up tight, her eyes shut closed. “I just wish I could see you.” 

Sandor allowed himself a breath of relief. She didn’t know he was there, that was clear now. _Then who the hells is she talking to? The gods?_ He looked at the face of the tree. _Her husband?_ _The ghost of her father?_

“I don’t,” she trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t know.” Her hand tightened once more on the root of the tree. She whispered again, almost as if to herself. If the wood wasn’t so silent, he’s not sure he would have heard her. “Did I do the right thing?” 

And as if the whole situation wasn’t strange enough, she let out a deep sigh and tilted her head back. It almost looked like her eyes rolled back in her head, but he couldn’t be sure from the angle. Several moments went by. Several minutes. She was so still. So utterly still he wasn’t sure she was breathing.

He couldn’t help it. He lifted himself up, to see closer. He put his foot under him.  A twig snapped sharply under his boot. Her eyes came back to her, her head snapped up and she turned in his direction. Sandor froze. She wasn’t looking directly at him, but he could see in her eyes that she knew she wasn’t alone. At that thought, he watched her sink down, lower into the water until just her eyes remained above the waterline, her eyes still fixed in his direction. 

He didn’t dare move. And neither did she. 

It couldn’t have been more than a minute, but it felt like a lifetime.

“Lady Sansa?” A voice came from afar. “Lady Sansa, are you ready?”

She lifted her mouth over the water, not taking her eyes off the spot above his head. “Yes, Marta.”

Sandor shut his eyes tightly. He let himself breathe again as he heard the sounds of the maid returning, of her helping Sansa out of the water, their retreating steps. 

When the sound of their feet had disappeared, Sandor relaxed. His body was aching with the release of his tense muscles. But nothing compared to the feeling of dread that washed over him.

He couldn’t imagine what was going to happen when he saw her again. If she knew he was there, he couldn’t be sure. The only thing he was certain of was that he was not looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. There it is. I think you all might like the next chapter. Hopefully.
> 
> Have a lovely weekend all! And thank you for reading!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some cheesy dreams and a whole lot of awkward.

If she had seen him, Sandor would have never known. When he saw Sansa at the feast that evening she didn’t give him a second glance. For a moment, he convinced himself she was avoiding his eye for the very reason he feared. But then after some rational thought, and another gulp of wine, he knew he was just thinking too much - never a good thing for a man like him.

Tonight, she was different. That fragile creature he had seen weeping in the godswood was all but a memory compared to the radiant woman he saw in front of him this evening. The King and Queen took up residence the high seats of the dais, Rickon seated next to his cousin, though most of his attention was awarded to the scarred girl to his right. Sansa sat to the left of her Queen. The two seemed to be closer friends than they had let on in that morning’s meeting. On Sansa’s other side was the imp - _her husband._  

Whatever had transpired within the group between that morning in the tense meeting and tonight’s feast must have been quite something. Every person on the dais seemed to be enjoying themselves with the free flowing wine and endless trays of food being brought out from the kitchen, none of which Sansa seemed to have must interest in. The wolf girl, who even though she showed up late, seemed to be enjoying her conversation with the imp. Every now and then one of the pair would let out a chortle of laughter that didn’t so much cut through, but rather rose high over the din and chatter of the rest of the hall. Arya was loudest when Tyrion nearly fell of his chair as he tried to give the girl’s beast a morsel of meat from where she lay crouched under the high table.

At an evening like this, both Brune and Sandor were permitted to join the table below the dais, especially with all the extra guards around. Sandor had his eye on the children a few seats down, Edmund trying to look conspicuous as he flung a potato across the way at his unsuspecting elder brother. Sandor didn’t usually drink around the boys, but with the evening’s festivities and all that he learned that afternoon, he allowed himself the one cup. He tried not to watch Sansa sitting high above him, but the view he had from the seat he ended up in allowed him no other choice.

With what he knew now, everything she did seemed to make more sense. Her rigid posture didn’t seem to come from her superior self-importance, but rather the discomfort and pain he knew she was trying to mask in front of everyone. The same with her blank face and, sometimes he thought, mild disinterest in her children. She was trying to hide her sheer exhaustion from the being growing inside of her. It was still so strange though, as he thought of Cersei. He didn’t usually like to think of that time in his life, shadowing that woman around. But he remembered at this point of her pregnancy with Joff, Cersei seemed to be in the best of spirits. Sandor knew that something must be wrong with Sansa to make her feel so terrible.

Watching her in the godswood cleared some things up, but it also gave him new questions. Why did she cry? Why was she hiding the pregnancy if it was truly Littlefinger’s? He was her husband after all. And lastly, who did she think she was talking to in that bloody tree? 

He didn’t understand most of what had occurred. He doubted he ever would. All he knew was that Sansa Stark felt guilty about something. Enough guilt to make her weep into her hands and talk to a tree.

He watched her sit back in her chair to allow the King and Queen to discuss something across from her. Her eyes were down cast and he watched as her hand slipped from the table and she placed it on her belly. And then she looked up. Directly at him. Sandor was frozen in her gaze. He couldn’t shift his eye away and pretend he hadn’t been staring. He was caught. She didn’t blink. Her face gave nothing away, which was normal. But for some reason, in that moment as his heart beat in his throat, Sandor knew she knew.

A clangor of metal against stone broke their focus. Sandor blinked and turned in time to see Sigrin standing up fast and pushing himself away from the table. Across from him was Edmund, in a fit of giggles, clutching a spoon in his hand. He watched as Sigrin stalked away, wiping the front of his leathern doublet until he was out of the room. 

He glanced toward Brune who merely raised his brow as Sandor stood and walked around the table to Edmund. After a couple of laughs, most of the men went back to their drink, their talk, but he knew the prickle he felt in his neck was from her piercing eyes. He tapped Edmund on the shoulder, and his laughter cut off with a sigh of reluctance. Sandor didn’t have to say anything; with a sharp look, Edmund rolled his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bench. He stomped his way toward the exit. Only then did Sandor notice Arleth, asleep at the table below him. Sandor repressed a sigh and lifted the boy gently as he could and held him to his left shoulder. 

Arleth didn’t awaken, but he turned his face toward Sandor’s, resting his head more comfortably on his shoulder as he was carried out of the room. Sandor walked by the dais, giving the King and Queen a nod as he passed, and avoided the boy’s mother’s eye at all cost. He heard Shireen give a cooing sound as he passed her, and he wondered if he should have let Rickon carry the boy up instead. 

As he followed Edmund’s fierce steps toward the boy’s rooms, Sandor was suddenly glad for the disturbance. Once he saw all boys to their nurse for bed, he would be going to his own room right after them. He wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep.  To sleep, and try and forget about everything he saw.

—

He was lost. That much he knew. He didn’t know how he got there, or where he was trying to go. He just knew he was lost. 

It was snowing, hard. A deep and cold snow that rose to his knees and left his bones cold and weary. He’d been at his search for a long time, he knew. Days. Perhaps even weeks. There was a noise in his head, something he had been following. Something almost like a voice, but not yet.

And then he saw it. A weirwood. A heart tree in the distance. The leaves blood red against the white and grey of all that surrounded it. He moved as fast as the snow, his limp, would let him until, finally, he reached it. 

Something was wrong. There was no face in the tree. The voice he heard, it wasn’t there. There was sound. A mumbling. He took a blade from his belt and knelt in front of the tree. 

This was why he was there. He knew that now. The mumbling continued; sounds on the precipice of being words. He put the blade into the bark and cut. He carved and worked as quickly as he could, the blood-like sap seeping through and dripping down his blade, covering his hand with a mess of stick. But then he was done. And there was a face. And it said his name. 

“Sandor Clegane.”

He rested his hands on either side of the face. Not the crude cuts he had made anymore, but a clear face. The face of a boy. Perhaps a young man.

“Help her, Clegane.” The voice was clear, loud in his ears. This was what he had been searching for, waiting for. “Help her. _Help her._ ” The voice was insistent, loud in his ears. “Clegane!”

He awoke with a start, sat up and reached to his left for his sword that rested against the wall.

“Clegane!” A harsh whisper.

The voice was in his room now. He froze, and let his eyes adjust to the dim light emanating from the doorway. 

It was the middle of the night. Sansa Stark was in his bedroom.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was thick with sleep.

She didn’t answer as she turned to shut the door, slowly, silently. Only half of his mind was awake, aware of what was happening in his room. As he heard the bolt slide into the lock, his only matter of concern was the state of his undress. His eyes searched the room frantically for his clothes. They were at the foot of his bed where he had carelessly thrown them off before he went to sleep. There was no getting out of the bed. Not with her in the room. 

She turned and looked at him. He didn’t move. Not even to pull the bed clothes over his chest as was his natural reaction. Once more, he was stuck in her gaze.

She spoke even and clear. “I know you saw me.”

He didn’t have to ask. He didn’t need to clarify. He knew what she had meant. And she knew he knew.

He struggled for the words. “I didn’t mean…” he started, half-hoping she would interrupt him with a question or something of the sort. But she didn’t. She didn’t even blink. The words died in his mouth and they were left hanging there in the heavy air between them. What could he say? What excuse could he truly give? How could he apologize for skulking behind a tree, peering at a highborn lady as she bathed, weeped and spoke to her gods in a tree?

The tree. Flashes of his dream were coming back to him now. The voice. The face. A face he thought he had seen before. _Help her_ , it had said. _Help her._

He tried to calm himself, looking in her eyes. They weren’t angry. She never truly looked angry. Just impassive as always. His eyes flashed to her belly automatically, then back up again. He blinked, memorizing the look of her. She was barefoot and wearing a loosely tied robe that appeared to only be covering a nightshift. Her hair was pulled to the side in a short clean braid that looked like it hadn’t been slept on. In one hand she held a candle. In the other, a key.

 _A key._ He didn’t even think of it until now. _How did she get in here?_ He _knew_ he had locked the door. The answer came to him as the question had. She had a key to his room. She’d let herself in.

He looked up at her again. “I apologize,” he finally hear himself say. “I never should have done what I did. I’ll give you no excuse.”

She blinked. Finally. Mercifully. But that was all. 

“I haven’t told anyone,” he continued to explain.

She nodded. She believed him.

It didn’t seem so much like she was there to scold him now. Her words announcing what he had done seemed to be a confirmation, not an accusation. The next words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Is it…Baelish’s?”

A look of shock crossed her face. Like she could come to his room in the middle of the night, barefoot in a robe and nightshift, but how dare he ask who the father of her child was. 

She swallowed. Not out of nerves, but frustration maybe. Other than that, she hadn’t moved.

If she was nervous or wary about where she was, she didn’t let it show.

Her voice was softer, without the accusing tone, as she looked at some spot on the wall past Sandor’s head. “That’s exactly why I haven’t told anyone. I knew people weren’t going to believe the child was his. Not after his death.” She brought her eyes to his. “This child is Petyr’s.”

She was waiting for something. So Sandor nodded.

Her voice was even softer now. “I haven’t lain with a man since my husband’s death.” _What? What did she just say?_ “I trust you not to tell this to anyone about it. Lothor knows. And Marta. I’ll tell everyone else soon. When I’m ready.”

 _When she’s ready? She’s more than half way there. When was she going to get around to it?_ He pushed the thought away. It was none of his business. But what she just said - ‘I haven’t lain with a man’ - _did she truly just say that?_ What did she want to tell him that for? He pushed the thought away again. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” he told her. She nodded once. She still hadn’t made another move into the room, or out. “If you’ll let me dress, I can bring you back to your-“

“No.” Her answer was simple. Final. But Sandor did not know what she was objecting to; being brought back to her quarters, or his statement on dressing himself. 

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to ask. “My lady, why…why are you here?”

From the corner of his eye he noticed her fingers curl around the key she held in her hand. “For the reason I had just mentioned. I need your help.” _His help_. The dream. He didn’t move. “And I figured, since you already know about this.” She bent her chin down to her belly, never taking her eyes off his. It was almost like she didn’t want to acknowledge it, her child growing inside of her. “I can’t sleep,” she told him. She looked like she wanted to shrug. “I think it might help. It used to.”

Sandor couldn’t take it anymore. “Tell me.” He gritted his teeth. “What are you talking about?”

Sansa took a breath. It would have been imperceptible had he not been watching her so intently. Her eyes were bright and wide in the dark. Her features clear and free of betraying any thought going on in that mind of hers. It was that very look on her face that made her question so utterly impossible to understand.

“Do you want me?’

“ _What_?” The question made no sense.

“Do you want me?”

“Do I… _want_ you?”

“I am not the type of person to force or coerce someone into doing something they do not want to do. So I need a precise answer. If you would prefer me to leave, tell me now and we will agree to never discuss this again.” She paused. When she spoke again, if her voice changed at all, perhaps her tone became somewhat softer. “It’s a simple question Clegane. It only requires a simple answer.”

“Yes.”

He saw her swallow. “Yes, what?” she asked. 

His voice was quieter than he had expected, but she still heard him. “I do. Want you.”

It wasn’t Sandor Clegane who spoke these words. It couldn’t be. Because a world where Sansa Stark came to Sandor Clegane’s bedroom and asked him such a question was simply not a world that could exist in any reality Sandor had ever known. Not for the first time in the last several minutes, Sandor knew he must be dreaming. But he couldn’t wake up. He wasn’t sure that he truly wanted to.

“Well then,” she said. Sansa put down her candle on a table by the door, her key. She took off her robe, folded it neatly and placed it on the table. She stepped toward him.

“Now?” Sandor almost yelled. 

She looked at her feet and sighed before looking back up at him. Her nostrils flared for a moment as she let out a harsh breath, two bright points of pink illuminating on her cheeks. A part of him wondered if all of this talk was making her lose her nerve. If it were true, he didn’t know if he should talk her out of the room, or just shut the hell up.

“Yes, now,” she said. And after breath, in a kinder voice. “As long as you don’t mind, of course.”

 _Mind?_ If he wouldn’t _mind_? _Mind fucking Sansa Stark?_

He laughed. A short, harsh thing. One that caught him off guard more than it shocked her by the look of it. But once the echo of it was gone, not even the trace of a smile lingered on his face. She was completely serious. He had to be too. He shook his head. 

As she stepped toward him, the thought occurred to him. He was… _nervous._ He didn’t know what she would want him to do. He didn’t know where to start. He hadn’t even bothered with a bloody bath that day. He moved to stand.

“You don’t have to get up.” She told him. “I’d prefer it actually.” 

He froze, still sitting up on the bed. This was so absurdly strange. He had to ask. “What do you want me to do?” Gods the question sounded so ridiculous coming out of his mouth. She didn’t seem to think so, though.

“Could you,” she stopped herself. “Would you lie back, please.” 

He did as she told him, until he was flat on his back, only a pillow underneath his head. When she reached for the sheets that covered him he repressed the urge to push her away. 

“May I?”

He nodded and she moved the blanket down over him. Sandor didn’t take his eyes off of her as her eyes flashed quickly toward his body and then back up to him. Had she tried this in the beginning of his stay, he wasn’t sure he would be so willing to show himself to her, scrawny and weak as he was. But over the months with enough food and work, he was able to build himself back up to, or at least close enough to, the man he had been before winter. The only difference was the dent in his thigh and the graying hair on his chest and body. She pulled her shift up over her knees, climbed up to the bed and straddled him.

The only part of her that touched him was the inside of her thighs, cool silk against his own. Sandor knew then that she was not planning to remove her nightshift. _Good_ , he thought. He wanted her to keep it on. Not for hiding her belly. Gods know he probably fucked a pregnant whore before. But he didn’t think he would be able to handle watching Sansa naked on top of him.

Just the memory of seeing her in the godswood was enough to make him lightheaded. But then, the baby. “Will I hurt you?” He raised himself to his elbows.

His eyes flashed down to her belly. She caught his meaning. He thought of her relief when she stepped into the pool. _It’s the only thing that helps_ , she had said to Marta in the godswood. _She’s in pain from the pregnancy._ Even if she wouldn’t admit it to him, he knew that now.

“You won’t.” She started to look impatient. She raised herself up over him. “Trust me.”

“Wait.” He heard himself say. She did, looking down at him with the largest blue eyes he’d ever seen. “It’s…it’s been a long time.”

She nodded. “For me as well.”

He looked down at her belly once more. “Not nearly as long as it’s been for me.” He looked up at her again. “Remember, I lived ten years on an island of men.”

Her face was still blank. “So what stopped you?”

Sandor felt his eyes widen. “ _What?_ ”

Her mouth lifted minutely at the corner, a near smile at her jape. All she said was, “I don’t mind. Truly.”

Sansa Stark, straddling him, poking fun at him. It had to be a dream. But he’d had dreams like this with her before. In those dreams she smiled at him, came to him wantonly, cried his name out as she writhed underneath him. This - whatever this was - was nothing of the sort. It seemed closer to a negotiation she might make with someone in her solar than to what was truly about to happen.

“Are you ready?” She asked him, still poised over him.

As if the answer wasn’t practically staring her in the face. “Are you?” Sandor certainly wasn’t an expert in these dealings anymore, but he still knew that a woman usually needed some time before they were able to accommodate a man. But she nodded in return. 

“Don’t move,” she whispered. He nodded in agreement without thinking. She took him in her hand and he bit his tongue. She raised herself above him until her shift covered them both. She placed her free hand on his lower stomach to steady herself. “Don’t move” she said again, her eyes shut tight this time. He didn’t. But when she lowered herself onto him, enveloping him in the warmth of her, he couldn’t help it. With a rumble in his throat he laid back and his hands moved instinctively to grip her thighs. She didn’t leave his body, but she used both of her hands to swat his away.

“I told you not to move.” Her eyes were fierce and her nostrils flared. He’d broken some agreement, it was clear. One he hadn’t been coherent enough to understand until now. She was not to be touched. 

Sandor let go, resting his hands at his sides and waited for her. 

He saw her swallow, and her eyes calmed again. She rested both of her hands on his stomach and shut her eyes once more. 

It was the most baffling, rapturous, hellish moment he had ever felt in all this life. And it was all over in less than a minute. He felt like a bloody greenboy, finishing so quickly. She had moved slowly, almost painfully slow on top of him. But Sandor wasn’t going to make the mistake of telling her what to do. His hips bucked up to meet hers, but that was all he allowed himself. All she allowed him, truly. It was over quickly, but by the way her breath had caught in her throat, the way her fingers clutched fiercely into the hair on his stomach, and the nearly silent shuttering sigh that escaped from her parted lips, he didn’t think she minded much.

Sandor was practically gasping for breath, even though he’d barely moved at all. After a few deep breaths, he watched as she opened her eyes to look at him. Her eyes were hooded, heavy. She looked - relieved. He felt himself twitch inside of her. She must have felt it too. She lifted herself away from him and clambered, somehow gracefully, over his body until she reached the floor. Sandor sat up and watched her. 

Now that they were parted, the familiar strained air between them filled the room once more. He repressed the urge to say anything, ask any questions that he knew were truly unnecessary. 

Sansa took her robe from the table, shrugged it over her shoulders and tied it tight around her waist. She took her candle, still at the same height as when she had entered his room, the key with which she had done so, and she opened the door. She paused, turning her head to face him, her chin over her shoulder, her eyes downcast. “Thank you,” she said. And then she was gone.

The room was enveloped by darkness once more without her light. If Sandor wasn’t left with the scent of her on his skin, his mind spinning in circles, then it would have been as if she had never come to him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truly the most awkward lemons I've ever written. 
> 
> Sorry/You're Welcome? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> It would be lovely if you wouldn't mind letting me know what you think. Thank you for reading!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for bitter, cranky, greedy Sandor!

“So, who wants to fly first?” King Jon asked.

Edmund nearly jumped out of his skin. “You mean we get to _ride_ him?”

“Why else would I have brought you here?” The King laughed. “Aunt Arya’s already been half a dozen times.”

“Your mother said nothing about _riding_ the beast,” Sandor spoke out.

Edmund’s face deflated, but the king was undeterred. “I’ll speak to Sansa then.” He gave Edmund a pat on the back. 

There was no discussion of which brother would be going first. Sandor and Sigrin stayed back as the King and Edmund stalked up the hill to where Viserion perched. 

Sandor wasn’t surprised Sigrin didn’t put up more of a fight. He could sense the boy’s nerves as if it were some tangible excretion of energy radiating between them.

Sandor watched Jon climb the beast with Edmund clutching onto his back. He moved the boy to the dragon’s neck in front of him. Little Edmund was a mere speck compared to the beast’s mass, clutching fiercely onto the harness the king put in his hands.

Sandor was glad the queen’s black beast was off hunting somewhere at least. Being so close to one at a time was surely more than enough. No creature should be allowed to grow so large. _No_. That wasn’t even the worst of it. No creature should be allowed to breathe _fire._

Sandor held his hands in fists watching the boy fly through the air. He knew now why Sansa didn’t care to bring the boys herself. They circled above for a moment before flying away toward the north. Just as they shrank to a fleck of dust in the vast sky, they grew larger again, returning back to where they had started. The whole trip couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but it was long enough in Sandor’s opinion.

As they returned, the dragon hovered high above, its great wings flapping rhythmically, creating a breeze that still touched them on the ground even from the great height. What was even more astounding was how far the golden fire that erupted from the mouth of the beast reached. It shot straight up into the air, a distance of a hundred feet or more. Sandor looked down and felt himself shift as the warmth grazed his face. From the corner of his eye, Sandor could see Sigrin look up at him, back up to the dragon, and back to Sandor once more. Neither of them said a word.

When Viserion touched down atop the hill, Sandor could feel the tremor the through ground and deep within his bones.

“Did you see that? Did you see?!” Edmund ran down the hill so fast Sandor half expected him to trip and tumble the rest of the way. “I said, I said _dracarys_ and _whoosh_!” Edmund’s arms shot straight up into the air above him. “The fire was everywhere!”

Much to Edmund’s dismay, when it was Sigrin’s turn to fly, the dragon did not release even a breath or spark. 

—

When Sandor woke up that morning, seeing the dragon was the farthest thing from his mind. 

He awoke instantly, all at once. There was no drowsiness holding him down as there usually tended to be.

He remembered. He remembered every moment of the night before. 

He should have said no. He should have walked her back to her own quarters and locked her in her room. He should have stopped it before it even began. He knew that now. He knew it after she had left and closed the door behind her. He’d paced for an hour or more. Twice he had reached for the door to go find her, make her explain what she had just done. Both times he stopped himself. Once because he lost his nerve. Again, because he realized he did not know which door belonged to her bedroom.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Even as his weariness took over him and he fell into sleep once more, he thought about it in his dreams. The solidity of her legs braced against his own. The soft, almost inaudible sigh she reluctantly released. The look in her eyes when she opened them at the end. Whole. Sated. Satisfied. And there something else. Could it have been relief? 

And if what she took from him was all she wanted, couldn’t she find a way to give herself that relief on her own?

So why? He needed to know why. Why had she come to _him_ of all people? Not just ugliest fuck in all of Winterfell, but in all of the seven kingdoms. Though that hadn’t really mattered, did it? She kept her eyes closed the entire time. Right up until the end. 

If what she did was all she claimed she needed, she must have supposed anyone would do. He was probably just the first door she stumbled upon as she made her way down the stairs. 

The stairs. The stairwell. The door to his room was right next to the stairwell that led up to the family’s quarters. 

So he very well was the first door she stumbled upon. Either that or - _no_. It was too absurd a thought. But there it was, circulating through the corners of his mind. Could he have been placed in that very room for a reason? For _this_ reason, specifically? He was sure the lady of the house must have some hand in assigning such placements. She did only have one key in her hand. She must have known where she was going when she had left her rooms. 

Each evening, when Sandor returned to his room, he would check to make sure the door to the stairwell was closed tight. Ever since that first night, when he realized he was only steps away from her bedroom, Sandor never let himself think of that fact. The last time he was in Sansa Stark’s bedroom, he had pushed her down onto her bed and held a knife to her throat. 

So how could she come to him after he had done such a thing to her?

Somewhat shamefully, he wondered if she would come to him again. He wondered what she would say when she saw him in the morning. _Morning._

It was only then that Sandor realized the brightness of the light in his room. _Fuck._ He sprang out of bed as quickly as his leg would let him. 

When he entered the room, his leg threatening to spasm with the effort he took in his haste, the only one who turned to him was Brune.

The man sent him a questioning gaze to which Sandor only shrugged. “Overslept.”

It was true. Partly. He didn’t need to give him a reason as to why he had slept past the hour of his duty.

Sandor took his usual place and took in the scene. Sansa and her boys finishing their morning meal. He didn’t know what he expected; Sansa to call him into the side room to explain her actions from the night before. In the very least she could have given him a certain knowing look, making it clear that he was not going mad and that she had in fact come to him in the middle of the night. 

But she hadn’t done either of those things. She didn’t even take notice of his late entrance into the room. Sansa acted as she did every day as she studiously ignored her food and spoke to her sons. She was in deep conference with Edmund. He seemed to be pleading about something to her. In the next moment, she was facing him, looking him in the eye and speaking to him as if he had been standing there, like he should have been, all morning. 

“The boys are insistent on seeing the dragon. Is that agreeable to you Clegane?”

There he was, standing in front of her, still able to recall the the feeling of her legs bracing his, her fingers digging into his stomach as she moved above him. He could still bloody smell her on him as he dressed and the first thing out of her mouth was to ask if he wouldn’t mind escorting her children to see the monster out back?

He didn’t know what else to do. He accepted, in the same docile manner he had the night before.

—

It was another three days before she came to him again. He hadn’t fallen asleep yet, and he still straight up when she had come in. He’d been keeping his small clothes on in the night in fear, he admitted to himself, that she would come back again.

In his mind he thought that if he wasn’t fully undressed, then he might find it easier to refuse her. 

But when she came in silently asking him with her eyes, he knew he would have stripped down to nothing even if he was wearing all the clothes in his trunk at once.

It was the same as the first time. A part of him knew she wouldn’t want him in any other way. So he watched her as she moved silently above him in the exact same manner as she had only a few nights earlier.

His eyes fell on her face after he’d finished inside of her, realizing there was no reason to worry. The woman couldn’t get more pregnant than she already was. Fuck, she was beautiful. It took every ounce of will he had left in his sorry self to keep his hands gripped onto the sheets at his sides.

Her shift, he noticed, was different though. This one looked to have a green ribbon - tied up tightly of course, and double knotted at her chest, just to be sure. Her hair was different too. Not as smoothly plaited as last time. There was a shorter piece that fell from behind her ear and into her face. It was almost as if she had braided her hair on her own, hastily, before she could change her mind and get back into her own bed. 

She was close, he could tell. Though she didn’t make a sound this time, he could see it in the way she grit her teeth behind her lips, her jaw tight and her brow furrowed. 

Throughout the whole ordeal eyes were shut tight, even as she let go. Her mouth popped open as she gasped, so near silently that Sandor could barely hear her. From her open mouth her could see the pink of her tongue, a part of her he suddenly realized he would never get to experience.

Unlike last time, she climbed off of him without even opening her eyes. Not even a flicker of an eyelash. 

Sandor couldn’t explain it, the sudden shame and mortification that flooded through him. She came to _him_ again, yes, but there was something about it that just wasn’t right. Something about it that made him very near angry. And as she padded across the stone floor and shrugged her robe back over her shoulders, it was this feeling that made him say, “Why don’t you visit a man you can bear to let touch you, or at the very least, that you can bear to look at.”

Her hands that worked the tie at her waist froze, but only for a moment. She finished and looked up at him. Her face was stone. “You don’t know a thing about it, Sandor Clegane.”

In that moment, Sandor knew that he had never felt so admonished in his entire adult life. She was right. What _did_ he know about her? About her thoughts, about the decisions she made, about the workings of her mind? Hells, he didn’t even know what happened in her life over the past ten years to turn her into a woman who would want such things from a man like him.

Before he could murmur out any apology, she was speaking again.

“It cannot be any other way. You need to know that.” He knew what she meant. He would never be able to touch her. She would never be able to look at him. “If you wish for me to stay away from this moment forward, tell me now.”

He didn’t.

“Fine.” She exhaled through her nose and looked around the room. “Don’t forget that you have a choice in this just as much as I do. If I try your door and find that it is barred, I will leave you be.”

She looked at him, her eyes cutting deeply through him. He didn’t move. Neither of them said another word before she left.

He’d decided the next day, watching her with her children, her kingly cousin, her imp _husband_. He thought she was studiously ignoring him. But that wasn’t it at all. It didn’t matter if he was there or if he wasn’t. He was hired help. A man in the background to watch over her children, not to be thought of until they were in danger or until she needed to get off.

No matter what she said, how he didn’t know anything, how he didn’t understand, Sandor knew one thing. 

This, this _thing,_ this _agreement_ they made, it wasn’t good for either of them. Sandor would have no part of it. _If she wanted to be fucked every couple of nights she could bloody well find another cock to sit on._

It would end, whatever this was. It would end when she had her child. When she was well enough she would have no more need of him. Maybe she would find herself a more formidable lover. One she could truly bear to look at. She’d move on with her life and he would, _what_? Stay here? Watch over her boys until they were grown enough to be fostered in some other castle? Would he wait for Brandon and this new son she had inside of her? And what would happen when the fifth was grown and gone? What would become of Sandor when he was too old and weak to even walk properly? Would he be put down like some rabid dog? Would he be expected to go back to the garden, to dig and plant and harvest and tend to her fucking lemon tree until he was nothing but a pile of bones. And when she’d pass him on her walk through the godswood as he hefted barrows full of dirt to and fro, would she think back with pity at the man he’d once been? Would she look at him in disgust, remembering their few cold, shameful, awkward nights together in years past?

Sandor pushed the table against the door with such force that a fissure appeared in the edge of the wooden table that reached its center.

He got himself undressed and dug through his trunk. At the bottom he found it. A skin, full of wine that he knew he would be needing sooner or later. He gulped down half before sitting heavily at the end of his bed. He waited until the skin ran dry. Until his breathing slowed. Until his damn bum leg stopped throbbing. 

It couldn’t have been more than an hour, not much more in the least, before Sandor trudged over to the table and dragged it back out of the way of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, what a brat. Though somewhat understandable? Let me know what you guys think! Lot's of contemplative Sandor. Too much maybe, but it's to be expected I can only assume!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Posting before I go to sleep, so apologies for any typos!  
> As always, your comments and kudos are so very greatly appreciated!
> 
> Quick thank you to Jennilynn411 and Direwaggle42 for helping me with something that will be happening in the next couple of chapters. There is a little touch of it here, but you'll see, you'll see!
> 
> I hope you like this one! The awkwardness made me way too happy.

There are countless problems one may run into when dealing with young children on a daily basis. Their attitudes. Their tempers. Their complaints. Worst of all might have been their mouths and how they couldn’t seem to keep them shut - Edmund worst of all. It had only been a matter of minutes, as far as Sandor knew, that Edmund had managed to keep his ride with Viserion a secret. Sandor was grateful he wasn’t there to hear Sansa scold the king for letting Sigrin and Edmund do so. He was also surprised she hadn’t come to him to do the same. But the damage was done once Edmund opened his mouth. Even at three years old, Arleth knew that he had missed out on something spectacular.

So this morning, Sandor would have to take the three of them out to see the beast once more. But _no flying -_ direct order to all of them from the Lady of Winterfell. The king was apparently out with Viserion on the beast’s early morning hunt so he would be fat and lazy by the time Sandor and the boys came around.

Besides this event, and the fact that the royal party would be leaving the morning after next, it was just another morning meal in the household. Sansa was at the end of the table reading the few letters that had arrived that morning as her boys scooped dutiful spoonfuls of porridge into their mouths. Ellyn, the boys’ nurse, had taken a fussy Brandon away earlier. Sandor was shocked to see there was a letter for Lothor Brune. Sansa had given him permission to see to answering it right away. 

Midway through the morning meal, Edmund had to sit on his hands; he was so ready to burst from the anticipation. After his third whine to his mother, she glanced over at his bowl, saw that he was mostly finished and said, “you can go.”

The boys hopped out of their seats; their little copper heads bobbing toward the door with nervous excitement. 

“Arleth, darling,” Sansa called, her eyes on the letter in her hand. “I need to speak to you for a moment.”

Edmund whined once more. “Mother, you just said we could go!”

Sansa hadn’t even looked up from the letter. “Wait for Clegane and your brother outside. We’ll only be a moment.”

Sandor didn’t know how he got roped into staying. Brune was still gone. Ellyn too. It would just be him, the boy and his mother, for some reason he did not yet understand. 

Edmund teased his little brother for being in trouble, but Sandor quieted him with a look as he and Sigrin shuffled outside.

Sansa began speaking to her son as Sandor closed the door behind the boys.

“I heard there was quite an issue this morning?” She had turned her chair to face Sigrin and bent forward to be at his level.

The boy kept his eyes down, tugging at his sleeves with his little fingers. He said nothing.

“Ellyn told me she had trouble getting you dressed.” Sandor felt sorry for the girl at times. Sandor saw Ellyn every day, but neither of them ever had a word for each other. All Sandor knew of her was how exhausted she looked after having to deal with all four in the morning on her own. 

“Now why would that be?” Sansa asked politely.

The boy’s voice was fierce - as fierce as the voice of a three year old could be. “I don’t want to wear clothes!”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “You…you what?”

The boy reddened. “I don’t want to wear clothes,” he said more sullenly.

Sandor was practiced in acting like he wasn’t listening to conversations happening right in front of him. He’d seen and heard some things over the years that made this difficult. This situation with Arleth and his mother would always be among the more trying situations.

He saw Sansa’s eyes flash up to him and back down to her son. “Arleth, why would you say such a thing?”

The boy sighed heavily. “Shaggy doesn’t have to wear clothes. Nymeria doesn’t have to wear clothes.”

For once, a range of emotions played across Sansa’s face. Surprise, humor perhaps. She spoke delicately, so as not to further upset her son. “Darling, I’m sorry but you do have to wear clothes. There is a big difference between you and the wolves. Can you tell me what that is?”

He shook his head.

“Now I’m sure you can. Come now, tell me.”

“They’re…animals?”

“Yes. And you are?”

He sighed. “A boy.”

“That’s right,” Sansa said warmly. “Animals, as much as we may consider them a part of the family, do not need to wear clothes. In this world, boys and girls do have to be dressed. Now, I don’t want to hear of you giving Ellyn a problem again. She does so much for you and your brothers. In fact, tonight I would like you to apologize to her for the trouble. Can you do that for me?”

It took a moment, but the boy eventually nodded in acceptance. Sansa leaned forward and kissed her son’s chestnut curls. She pulled away and put her hands on his shoulders. “Now go wait outside the door for Clegane as I speak to him for a moment.”

A vice gripped around Sandor’s stomach. _Speak to me?_ Sansa hadn’t come to him in a week. He thought it was over. He’d accepted that she would never come to him again. That she would never mention it again. That they would go on with their lives pretending as if those two strange nights never even occurred. Perhaps that was what she wanted to tell him.

Arleth moved out of the room to wait with his brothers. As Sandor shut the door behind him he heard Sansa sigh. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” She was settling herself back into a formal position in her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said. 

Sandor shook his head. For what was she apologizing?

“I just don’t know what to do with him. His brothers never had a problem like this.”

Sandor shrugged. “They didn’t grow into childhood around wild animals.”

Sansa blinked and looked up at him as if she had only just remembered he was standing there. “That’s true.”

A silence came over the room. That brief exchange was the most they’d spoken in the week it had been since she left his bed.  

Sandor put all of his focus into not clenching his fist, but the rest of his body tensed as he waited for her to speak. His leg was starting to ache as he looked at her in the eyes. It was the first time she looked at him since she’d said what she did. He watched her eyes flicker down to his mouth and back up to his eyes.

Was she waiting for him to speak? Was she waiting for an apology? In the second he took to think about it, Sansa opened her mouth and took a breath, readying to speak. 

A knock on the door cut her off. 

Sansa’s face fell. Sandor released a breath. She looked at the door, braced her hands on the table in front of her and looked at him once more. “Would you mind?”

He turned, stepped back to the door and opened it.

“Oh! Clegane.” 

He bent his head and stepped back. “Your grace.”

Queen Daenerys came through the door, brightening the room with her silver hair and her smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting something.” She looked between Sandor and Sansa who was rising to her feet, slowly. 

“Of course not, your grace. What can I do for you?”

Sandor had seen the look from many times, in many different situations and on many different people. It was the look that told him it was time to leave the room; the look the queen was giving him at the moment. 

He bent his head once more, backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

His leg throbbed as he released the tension he didn’t realize he had been holding. Sandor barely had a chance to take in the hulking visage of Jorah Mormont outside the door before a little hand grabbed his and began dragging him down the hall.

—

For once, Sandor hadn’t been thinking about her when she unlocked the door to his room. 

Sandor couldn’t get to sleep that night. It wasn’t Sansa on his mind, as she usually tended to be. It was his damned leg. It had been threatening to spasm all day long, perhaps even longer than that. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He wanted to go to the kitchens for wine to help dull the ache and help him sleep, but he didn’t know if he would be able to make it all the way.

When she came in, he was sitting at the edge of his bed, trying to work out the ache with the heel of his palm, and there she was, hands on her hips.

“I do trust you Clegane,” she announced as if they had been having this conversation all evening long.

“As I mentioned to you, I haven’t…done this. Not since-“ she halted, looked down. _Not since Littlefucker left her with a goodbye gift._ “I wanted you to know that. Before - _if_ \- anything continues.” She looked up at him again moving her hands back down at her sides. “I trust you,” she breathed. “I trust you with the safety of my children.” Her eyes were cool and clear. “And I trust you with this.”

It was different again. Mildly, at least. 

She didn’t look him in the eye, but she did keep her eyes open. For the most part they were centered on his chest. It was as if she was trying to find something there, something on which to set her focus. She didn’t look him in the eye and he didn’t know if he would be able to handle it if she had. As her cheeks became flushed, her eyes shut on their own accord. Sandor was secretly glad.

He was barely present. His body reacted the way it needed to with a perfectly beautiful woman straddling him, but the pain in his leg was too great for him to find any release. He should have seen to it earlier. It was only a matter of time before it spasmed. 

He was lucky only Brandt had seen it happen last time. It had happened as they were working in the garden. Sandor ignored the usual signs until his leg gave out beneath him, sending him crashing down to his knees in the dirt. He was lucky only Brandt had seen then. But of course that luck would run out. This time, it happened just as Sansa came on top of him. 

As her legs clenched around his own, he managed to bite back the growl that threatened to release itself to combat the blinding pain that tore through his leg from his hip to his knee. 

“Something’s wrong,” he heard her breathe. He must not have been hiding it as well as he had hoped. In the same moment, she slipped away from him and he was sitting up hunched over the side of the bed.

She was still, behind him. “Your leg?” She sounded breathless.

Sandor couldn’t respond. He couldn’t remember a time it had been so painful. His muscle was twisted and hard as stone beneath his skin. He kneaded at it deeply with the heels of his hands, pushing past the pain of touch to work the spasm away.

“I’ll get Maester Glenn.” 

“No,” he managed through his teeth. 

Another silent moment. “What can I do?”

He shook his head. 

“There must be some-“

“Go,” he told her. “Just go.”

She did. Sandor was left to manage his pain on his own, just the way he had for the last ten years. Just the way he would continue to do for the rest of his miserable life. As bad as the pain was, Sandor was sure the humiliation of the night’s events would be even worse when his head was clear enough to think about them.

He’d told her he was broken. She didn’t want to believe it, even with his terrible limp. But now she’d seen the worst of it for herself. Now, he knew every time she saw him she would be thinking about him wincing and bent over in pain. What if this happened when he was on guard, watching the boys? What if they were in immediate danger and he couldn’t get to them because he was writhing in pain on the ground? Sandor had tried to warn her from the start, but she didn’t want to hear any of it. He knew it was only a matter of time before he would find himself sent back to the garden.

By the time the worst of it dissipated, Sandor realized her robe was still draped across the chair, her key on the table. _Fuck_. He told her not to get the maester. How would she explain the situation to him? By the time he was able to get his small clothes back over himself, the door opened again.

Sansa was alone. She kicked the door closed behind her; her hands were occupied, holding up a tray.

“I’m sorry it took so long.” She placed the tray on the table and brought him a cup. He took it in his hand. It was filled with wine. The sharp, twisting and piercing pain of the spasm was gone. The lingering, bone numbing ache was all that was left. The wine would help, he knew. He looked up at her. “Drink,” she told him. And he did. 

“I had to boil the water myself. It took me more than a moment to find a kettle.”

“You know how to boil water?” He asked her as she prepared her supplies. Somehow he couldn’t picture her in a kitchen.

“I’ll have you know that I used to make my own tea, back in the Vale.”

Sandor let out a breath. “Is that right?”

She murmured, a confirming sound. “Ask Ser Lothor if you don’t believe me.”

Again with Brune. This man who knew things about her that he knew no one else knew. Sandor was still inclined to believe that their relationship was more than it seemed. _She says she hadn’t been with another man since Littlefinger._ Not before Sandor. If that were true, he wouldn’t know what to make of her relationship with Brune.

Sansa came over with a bowl of steaming water and knelt in front of him.

She looked up at him. “May I?”

Sandor was too stunned to refuse.

He watched her dip her fingers in the water, take out a clean, dripping cloth and wring out the excess water. She lifted it to his leg. Her hesitation was minute, but he still caught it, before she placed the hot cloth along the length of his leg, covering the scarred depression with her hand. The relief was immediate. He let out a sigh of relief as the heat penetrated through his tired flesh.

She waited a moment before she spoke. Her voice was quiet. “I hardly noticed. Before.”

_Too busy fucking to notice._

She looked up at him. “Does it hurt very much?”

Sandor answered truthfully. “Not anymore.”

“You should try the hot spring fed pool by the heart tree. It helps me with my aches and pains,” and then, more quietly, “as you know very well.”

Sandor closed his eyes in shame. There was no use apologizing again. That’s not what she was after. It was difficult to tell with her static voice, but he knew she was _teasing_ him. A thing she seemed to enjoy, he was beginning to realize. 

“Is it helping?” She asked him.

He opened his eyes and nodded. Her face was closer than he had realized. He could smell the sweetness on her breath. He wondered how terrible his must have smelled. 

It was strangely intimate; her hand on his leg, kneeling beneath him, looking up at him with those damned blue eyes. She looked _kind_. Her eyes were warm. If she had been a different woman, there may have even been a smile on her lips. But she wasn’t another woman. This was Lady Sansa of Winterfell. As if she caught it herself, some distant feeling or memory darkened her features from the inside out. She blinked and seemed to remember herself. She removed her hand and stood up straight. 

“I’m sorry.”

Again with the apologies. He still didn’t know what she was apologizing for. But he knew better than to ask. He finished off the wine as she gathered her remaining things.

On her way out the door she turned. She was looking down at her stomach, which, although still small, must have been getting a little cumbersome to keep trying to hide. 

“I’m going to tell them tomorrow.” _It was about time_ , he thought as she looked back up. “I’ll see the boys in the morning. Tell them first.”

Sandor didn’t know what made him ask. “Do you think they might already know?”

Sansa shook her head. “I can’t be sure. I wouldn’t think so.”

Sandor scratched at his jaw. “I wouldn’t put it past Sigrin. He’s observant, that one.”

She allowed herself a small upturn of the corner of her mouth. “He is at that.” She turned to leave. 

“Wait.”

She turned back to him, her face displaying mild surprise at his call. 

“Thank you.”

Sansa gave him a stiff nod. And that was the end of that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. Hmm! Little change there, huh?
> 
> More soon I hope! I'm working at the beach selling badges in the office. It was pretty crazy at the start of summer with everyone getting seasonal badges, but now that they have them, guess what I get to do all day!!
> 
> NOTHING! (except write which is great)
> 
> Yay! Ok bye.  
> What do you think?? We are getting somewhere, I promise!
> 
>  
> 
> Update: 10/13/16
> 
> Okay so I can't believe how much time went by since I posted this. Seriously did not see how crazy life would get in that time. Good crazy, but crazy all the same.
> 
> I started teaching again, no time, had to finish planning my wedding, no time, had to celebrate my wedding, no time! Just came back from my mini honeymoon and now we are waiting to move into our new apartment. Oi.
> 
> I apologize for my absence but I promise I have not abandoned this story!!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one. No funny business.

Come morning, the pain was merely a dull ache. Sandor was positive he would never forget his humiliation from last night, but as far as anyone could tell, nothing had changed. As usual, Sansa made no notice of him around her family. 

The whole Stark clan were together this morning. Even the King. The Queen and Shireen had business elsewhere it was clear. Sigrin was looking sourly at his porridge and it wasn’t until Sansa spoke that Sandor recognized why.

“I am with child.” She simply announced the words. No pretense of a declaration to be made. She just said it.

The boys did not react. She had already told them, it would seem.

The wolfgirl’s head whipped up. “Who’s?” 

Sandor snapped to attention as Rickon choked on his sister’s exclamation. 

Sansa merely sighed. “Petyr’s, of course.”

Sandor couldn’t be sure, as he didn’t look directly at her, but it felt as if the wolfgirl was sending him daggers throughout the course of the meal.

Aside from Arleth and Edmund carrying on as usual a strange silence overtook the room. The King was watching Sansa as if she were about to reveal something else. Sandor didn’t have much experience with these matters, but he was fairly sure this should have been a pleasant announcement.

Maester Glenn, who was fiddling around as usual, seemed to view this as a good moment to jump in.

“Indeed, our lady is with child. Both mother and child are verily heathy for the time being, though this time around the babe does seem to be taking it’s toll on her. Isn’t that right, my lady?”

“Yes. Quite.”

Rickon spoke up. “Is that why you look so-“

“Dreadful?” Sansa offered.

Rickon sighed. “I was going to say tired..”

The silence returned. But only for a moment.

“A last gift from Lord Petyr,” the Ellyn chimed warmly, seemingly as confused as Sandor.

The King finally made his presence known and he cleared his throat. “So it is.” He raised his horn of morning ale. “To Sansa, and her child.”

—-

After the strange meal, Sandor brought the boys up to Maester Glenn for their studies. Before the man closed the door on Sandor, he cleared his throat.

“Clegane, do you have a moment?” Sandor waited as the man gestured to his leg. “Have you ever seen a maester about your leg after it healed”

He thought of Elder Brother. “Not a true maester, no.”

The man seemed almost pleased. “As I suspected. Well I hope you will be glad to know that I may be able to help.”

Sandor’s eyes narrowed of their own accord. “Help…”

“Yes. There are things you can do that may help improve the function of your muscle, to avoid spasm, to help it be more comfortable to stand on, maybe even help lessen the severity of your limp.”

Sandor felt himself backing away. “I see.”

“If you would like to come by later in the afternoon, I could show you-“

“No.” Sandor cut him off.

“But-“

Sandor bit off the ends of his words. “I said, no. I don’t need your help.”

The maester blinked at him and didn’t say another word as Sandor turned his back on him.

 

If he could have run there, he would have. She was alone at her desk when he opened the door to her solar. At that moment, Sandor would not have cared if Sansa wasn’t alone. He still would have said his peace even if the queen herself sat opposite her.

“Clegane?” Sansa looked about him, standing up. “Where are the boys?”

Sandor let the insinuation that he would have neglected his duties roll off his back. “They’re with the maester,” he snarled, slamming the door shut behind him.

Her look of concern changed to one of skepticism as she came around her desk. “What is the matter?”

He moved toward her into the room. “I told you I wasn’t fast. I told you I was practically a cripple.”

Her head tilted to one side. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you I didn’t want the maester’s help.”

Realization crossed her face. She huffed out a sigh and squared her shoulders. “You are acting like a child Clegane.”

A child. _A child?_ He strode forward and took her elbow in his arm. He held her tightly and close. “I don’t need you to fix me,” he snarled.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. “I’m not trying to _fix_ you,” she said through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes staring plainly up at him.

“I told you to stay out of it. And now your maester knows about it all.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed. “You think I told him about that?” She let out a small laugh. A _laugh_. “Are you mad?” She wrenched her arm free. “I did no such thing.”

“Then what did you tell him?”

She paused. “You want to know?”

“ _Tell me_.” Sandor’s fist clenched, his palm still sensing the warmth from her arm.

He could see her letting go. And only later did he realize how he wished she hadn’t. “I told him what Sigrin told me.” She stepped closer. “How you’ve seemed to be slower lately. How you rubbed an ache in your leg when you thought no one could see you. How you mutter under your breath before you take the stairs and you wince in pain when you reach the top. He thinks you don’t even realize that you do it. And I happen to agree with him.”

Sandor’s back straightened. “You, the boy, and the damned maester have no business-“

“Last night was not the first time I realized your pain,” she snapped, “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Sandor felt his shoulders fall.

Her eyes became distant. “You have no idea.” She shook her head, seeing something that he couldn’t. “Why should you suffer if there is a possibility your pain could be alleviated?” 

His anger stilled. He had no answer.

“I’ve had a raven from my cousin Robert.” Her eyes returned to his as she rolled her shoulders back. It was only then that Sandor realized he may have hurt her. His early morning meal turned to cold muck in the pit of his stomach. Another breath and her usual mask returned to her face. “He wants the boys to visit the Vale.”

Sandor said nothing. His back straightened and he took a step back.

“I wanted to tell you before I told the boys so you would have the time to prepare yourself. And not just to gather your things. I mean to prepare your body. You’ll be riding a long way and going up the mountain on the mules is exhausting. I wanted to make sure you would be comfortable on your way.”

He blinked. She knew how he suffered. There was no more hiding it, no matter how humiliating. “Nothing helps. Believe me.”

“I believe that you think that. The worst thing that could happen is that it doesn’t help. Why would you not at least try? Are you that stubborn? Are you- are you that proud?”

He didn’t have an answer for her. Sandor knew he was stubborn as a bull. But proud? He’d never considered himself such a thing.

Sandor Clegane always knew he was a man of few words, until he had enough wine in him. Then, especially when Sansa was around as a girl, the words would flow from his mouth as if water from a spring.

But _this -_ with Sansa now - was an all new experience. He’d never felt so dumbfounded, so utterly unprepared. So at a loss for words - so not worthy of speaking in her presence.

“I’m not ordering you to do anything,” she went on, turning away from him going back to the papers on her desk. “I just thought it might have helped you.”

Neither of them said another word before he walked out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Contrary to popular belief, I am alive. I deeply and sincerely apologize for my absent and apparent abandonment of this story. Alas, I have not truly abandoned it. This little bit has been on my desktop for a good 3(?) months. I originally was going to save it and make it longer, but that bit is taking me too long. 
> 
> I had originally planned to get this out before my wedding. Then life got pretty crazy. Last minute wedding stuff, actual wedding day, brief little honeymoon, funeral, crazy observations at work, moving into our apartment, the destruction of our country on November 8th, another funeral, terrible eye infection, getting 2 kittens and now Christmas.
> 
> But some good news now...as a teacher, I am blessed with a week of no work. I don't go back until the 3rd so I plan on lots more writing time. As long as the kittens are okay with it.
> 
> Sorry for the short post and long message. But I hope everyone is doing well and I thank you for coming back to read. I wish everyone and their friends and families a warm, happy and safe holiday season.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I don't know what came over me, probably that I just really didn't want to do the laundry that is climbing the walls, but I just sat down all day and finished this damn chapter that has been torturing me for months.
> 
> Some changes happening. Subtle. But changes all the same.
> 
> (oh and please don't mind and punctuation errors or typos. will be getting to those shortly)

Sandor stayed at the foot of the steps to wait for the boys. He had no intention of seeing the Maester again today. He didn’t know if they knew about the trip to the Vale, so he put it out of his own mind so as not to tell them before Sansa wanted. He put everything about Sansa out of his mind for the time being. He didn’t want to think about what had just happened.

Edmund dragged Sandor to the godswood when they came down. Sigrin went off on his own once they passed through the gates. Edmund had Sandor on the search for the perfect ‘sword’. Every branch or twig Sandor held up, Edmund had an issue with. After a while he left the boy to find it on his own and went out to look for Sigrin.

Sandor found him by the heart tree tossing stones into the quiet pool. Sandor came up beside him much to the boy’s dismay.

“Will you just leave me alone?” He sneered at Sandor.

“Can’t I’m afraid. Your mother’s orders.”

He tossed another rock into the water. It sunk under the surface. Once the last ripple reached the edge of the pool, the boy spoke.

“I knew it. I knew she was having another baby.”

It was strange. Sandor didn’t expect him to be a jealous child. Solemn and stoic. But never jealous.

Sandor measured the distance of the ground and knew it wouldn’t be wise to sit next to him. He stood there and tried to give him his space instead. “You don’t want another brother? A sister?”

Another rock headed straight for the bottom of the pool. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Sandor sighed. “I might do.”

Sigrin shrugged, but Sandor could tell he was getting somewhere. He move closer up next to him and looked down at the boy’s reflection in the dark water.

It was a moment before the boy spoke again.

“Sometimes, when I see myself, I can see _him_.”

“Who?”

Sigrin said nothing.

“Little-“, Sandor caught himself, “your father?”

He dropped another rock into the water, shattering the surface and his reflection with it.

Sandor thought of his own father. He supposed, if he hadn’t been mutilated as a boy, then he might have looked quite similar to him. Sandor’s father was weak and he was sure he didn’t have one fond memory of the man. And though Baelish was a thorough shit of a man bent on acquiring all the money and power he could, Sandor hadn’t imagined him as a poor father. Come to think of it, he hadn’t thought of Littlefucker acting as the boys’ father at all.

“Is that such a terrible thing?” He asked the boy.

Sigrin looked up at him then, his blue eyes awash with something Sandor had never seen in them before.

“Ned? Siggi?” Ellyn called from the far side of the clearing. “Time to wash up, boys!” 

Sigrin was up and brushing off his knees before Sandor could get an answer.

It hit him later on as he watched Sigrin push his dinner around on his plate. It wasn’t just a look of sadness on his face. And it certainly wasn’t jealousy as he had originally thought. The more he thought on it, it seemed more and more like an overwhelming sense of utter hopelessness. There was a weight on Sigrin - one much too heavy for a boy so young to bear.

 

—

 

She didn’t come to him that night. And Sandor was glad for it too; he had another spasm. It wasn’t until the next morning that Sandor gritted his teeth and begrudgingly asked the Maester how he thought he could help. The man was much too eager in showing him the stretches and mild exercises he could do in his own room. But Sandor listened. 

It was still a few days before he found it in himself to apologize for the way he acted toward her. Sansa had told the boys of their trip and they were genuinely looking forward to it. But Sansa seemed to be beside herself with the preparations.

“I think Ellyn should stay here with Arleth and Brandon.” She said to him one afternoon. “I think it may be good practice for the boys to have to ready themselves for the day without a nurse. What do you think?”

“I’m sorry.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“About the other day. The way I yelled. Treated you. I apologize.”

She blinked. Shook her head. “It’s no matter. But about Ellyn…”

Sansa continued on with the questions and conversation as if his apology were an inconvenient interruption. And perhaps it had been. She was terribly busy lately. He would be leaving with the boys in just over a week, the same morning the royal party - and dragons - would be heading back for King’s Landing. There was to be a big feast the night before and she was handling those preparations on her own as well.

But Sandor knew she must have believed him all the same. She came to him that night once again. It was similar to the last time, only without the excruciating pain. But before she left she had a few more questions about the trip. Did he truly believe Sigrin would be able to ride the whole way by himself? Was she sending them with enough food for the journey? Too much? How cold did he think it would be at night on the road?

He answered her questions, addressed her concerns all the while trying to ignore the fact that he had somehow become a part of her routine - a task to check off her list.

 

—

 

The night of the feast - the eve of their departure - came more quickly than Sandor was expecting.

Somehow the exercises and stretches Maester Glenn had convinced him to do once or twice a day seemed to be helping. At least a little bit. He was still in pain and figured he always would be, but he hadn’t had such a terrible spasm since he started. 

Sigrin and Edmund were both excited, Sigrin unsurprisingly less than his brother. Arleth had been difficult ever since he was told about the trip, so much so that he even refused to come to tonight’s feast. Ellyn had also said that he refused to let her dress him, again, so perhaps it would be for the best.

Sandor had said his goodbyes to Brandt and Alyn. He would be gone nearly two months, afterall. He couldn’t say he was looking forward to the trip, but he wasn’t truly dreading it either. On one hand he thought he might enjoy a change of scenery for once. A different pace. Some action and travel in his surprisingly steady new existence.

He watched Sansa from across the hall up on the dais. He wasn’t sure how he would be without her for that long either. Sandor didn’t know if he would miss her frequent visits to his room. He didn’t know how it happened, but sometimes he felt a small pit of dread in his stomach at the thought of her coming. He could forget about it eventually, but everything about their situation was uncomfortable, awkward and almost unbearable at times.

Not only that, there was part of him, a small part, wondered if he would enjoy the time away from her. Being around her all of the time, under her nose, he sometimes felt he could scarcely breathe. Her presence in his life sometimes seemed like an immense pressure of which he never once felt free. He didn’t like to admit that to himself, looking at her up there utterly perfect in that damn green dress, but it was the truth. 

Rickon stood then, gathering attention from everyone in the hall. He spoke, stuttering a bit, about the ‘great honor’ he felt in hosting the ‘saviors of Westeros’ and more and more nonsense. Sandor practically stopped listening. That was until Rickon claimed he had an announcement.

“I will always be grateful, especially for Ser Davos Seaworth and Queen Daenerys, for bringing Lady Shireen Baratheon along with them. For now, I am happy to tell all of you, she is to be my wife and Lady of Winterfell.”

The hall erupted in cheers, none louder than the wolfgirl on the dais. Arya whooped from her place near Sansa, who whipped her head to her sister, but only turned back with a small smile. Shireen reddened, as much as she was able, with the announcement and uproar that followed. It took King Jon to quiet the room down with a toast to the couple, who sitting next to one another all bashful and sweet looked more like children than the Lord and future Lady of the North. 

Just as the hall seemed ready to go back to the festivities at hand, there was a shout from the hall. Sandor noticed he, King Jon and Arya were the first to stand.

The door to the great hall opened with a bang.

The room filled with gasps when the girl’s wolf, Nymeria came running through the hall toward the dais. She knocked one man over, his ale spilling all down his front and everyone else made sure to get out of her way. There was something on her tail that she seemed to be determined to shake off. Was it… were they… _breeches_?

“Arleth! Arleth!” It was Ellyn’s voice coming from outside the door. Sandor was moving toward the main door of the great hall, but it opened once more. At first he couldn’t see what is was that everyone near the door was seeing. All he heard were shouts and gasps. And then he saw the problem. Arleth rounded the corner to make his way down the main aisle as Nymeria had done. He was chasing her.

Ellyn’s exasperated screams were not altogether unwarranted. The boy was stark naked. He pumped his little bare arms in the direction of Nymeria who, helped by Arya, had removed the little pair of breeches from her tail. The wolf saw her pursuer and ran out another door. Ellyn appeared, running after Arleth now as his giggle accompanied his exit out of the hall after Nymeria. 

The hall was nearly silent, but for the few remaining gasps and mutterings of those who could not believe what they had just seen. Sandor stood there in shock. He looked up at Sansa. All eyes were on her as she stood there with her mouth wide open in shock.

And then something extraordinary happened. Sansa laughed. A loud, bright, happy thing that made her collapse back in her chair and made something flip in Sandor’s stomach.

He looked around. Rickon, Arya and Brune were staring at her wide-eyed as if she had three heads on her shoulders. It wasn’t until Queen Daenerys followed suit that the whole hall erupted in laughter. Sandor had never heard anything like it. He watched Sansa again in disbelief as she held her stomach and wiped a tear from her eye.

Everyone seemed to be laughing now, even Rickon and Arya. His eyes found the boys. Edmund was quite literally on the floor, doubled over in hysteria. But Sigrin’s eyes were on his mother, his brow furrowed, he almost looked angry.

A thought came to Sandor then. He wondered if the boy had ever seen his mother laugh.

 

—

 

Sandor left the hall shortly after. The cooler air outside the hall felt much better than the heat that was crowded all around the great room.

He went to head for his room until he heard footsteps behind him.

“Clegane.” He turned to see Sansa standing there. “I was just going to check on Arleth. Would you come with me?”

He gave her a nod and followed after her flowing green skirt over and up to the family corridor. He’d never been there with her. He only ever came to get the boys if need be. It was strange that she wanted him to go with her, but he didn’t question in. They were silent all the way until they made it to the nursery. 

Sandor took stock of the room. Brandon was fast asleep, and there in his little bed, Arleth lay under the covers, drooling quietly on his pillow. 

Ellyn was tidying up, but dropped everything to begin profusely apologizing to Sansa, but Sansa would hear none of it.

Ellyn looked visibly relieved as the women walked over to Arleth in his bed. 

“He’s exhausted himself, my lady.”

“That is to be expected, I’m sure.” Sandor leaned against the frame of the door and watched Sansa move her son’s hair out of his eyes. 

She sent Ellyn away and thanked her for putting up with her wild boy. Sansa leaned over Brandon to check on him, grabbed a candle sitting on the table and came back near Sandor. She turned to look at Arleth once more and leaned her head against the other side of the door where Sandor stood. She was close enough that his elbow touched her arm, but she didn’t flinch.

“You weren’t completely wrong you know.” She said quietly, her eyes stuck on her third son. “Arleth. He’s not Petyr’s. All the rest are. Even this one.” She held her stomach. “But not him.”

Sandor didn’t know how to respond. Why would she tell him such a personal thing? The first thing he thought came out of his mouth. “Brune’s?” Sandor slipped. He didn’t know what made him say it.

Sansa looked accosted but then laughed once more. Small and brief, but warm and completely unnerving coming from her. “No. Lothor is my dear dear friend. But no. Not Lothor. Just… a man.”

Sansa was looking at her son. But perhaps she was seeing his father.

“Whats his name?” Sandor heard himself ask.

“Arleth.” She smiled to herself.

“And, where is he now?”

“He’s dead.” Sandor had nothing to say. He didn’t understand why she chose to tell him this, now of all moments. “I’ve never told anyone about that. Not Myranda. Not even Arya. I don’t plan on it either. Although, I always had a feeling Petyr knew.” Her teeth pulled at her bottom lip as she looked up at Sandor. “You wouldn’t-“

Sandor shook his head before she could finish. 

“Thank you.” And the unbelievable happened. She reached her arm out and took his hand. “Come with me?”

Her hand was so small. So soft. So warm. He resisted the urge to circle his thumb over the back the back of it.

She brought him down the hall, past what he knew to be her bedroom and to an inconspicuous door at the end of the hall. It creaked when she opened it and in the dim candlelight Sandor could see a narrow spiral stair ahead of them. She didn’t let go of his hand until they made it down the steps in the near darkness, until they were in the hall of his own room. 

She gestured for him to open the door.

“The feast,” he posed. It was still in full swing. People would notice her long absence.

Sansa shrugged. “They can get on without us.”

 _Us._ A short, almost purposeless word. But when she used it in reference to the two of them it sounded as sweet as Arbor Gold tasted.

He watched her quietly kick off her shoes once they were in the room. Sandor did the same. He started to undress, somewhat awkwardly. That was always done by the time she usually came to him. Sansa reached behind herself, seemingly to do the same, but huffed after a moment and put her hands on her hips.

She looked at him. “I’m sorry. Would you mind?”

Would he _mind_? Would he mind undressing Sansa Stark? She couldn’t have known how utterly ridiculous the words were.

He shook his head and went over to her. She moved her hair out of the way and held it in front of her. Her neck was reddening. 

“The laces are double knotted-“

“I see it,” he told her. It took a moment, the delicate ribbons didn’t want to cooperate with his fingers, but soon the dress became loose enough that she was able to  out of it. She wore a shift, one he’d seen before and she turned around to face him.

Sansa looked up at him, her cheeks red. They looked warm. He felt his heads moving toward her, but saw her eyes flash toward the bed. _Right. Her rules._ Just because he helped her get her dress off did not change anything about their arrangement. He got in the bed and she followed after.

Just when he thought it would be like any other time, she surprised him again. Her eyes were open as they were the last few times, but that wasn’t all. She moved her hands from his chest, found his hands clenched in fists at his sides and unfurled them delicately. Sandor watched as she lifted his hands, brought them toward her and placed them gently on her hips. He let them lay there, not pressing his fingers into her the way he wanted. That was until she did it for him. Her hands gripped around his own and he felt the softness of her give under the slight pressure. 

An illicit groan erupted from his chest and Sansa’s eyes flashed up to his. He froze under her, waiting for her to close her eyes, to look away, to pretend like she hadn’t just done what she did. But she didn’t. She kept her eyes on his as she continued to move on top of him, her hands holding his steady. He started to move once more and heard a shudder from her lips. She leaned forward, as much as her belly would allow, and put her hands on his shoulders. There they stayed, eyes on one another as they released, one after the other.

Sandor barely slept that night. How could he with the thought of what had happened? She’d laughed for what must have been the first time in how long? She told him what must be her deepest and most private secret. She let him touch her. She let herself touch him. And she looked at him. She looked into him. Sandor felt a chill go through him just thinking of it.

Just when he was looking forward to getting away, Sandor didn’t know how he was going to handle leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Jennilynn and Direwaggle for giving me the naked Arleth idea months ago in order to make Sansa laugh. They're always the best when it comes to humor! 
> 
> Sooooo its been forever, what do you guys think?!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna leave this right here...
> 
> It's been a while. Apologies for any typos.

Sandor couldn’t rightly believe it himself, but there he was each and every day, keeping up with the Stark boys on their romps throughout the Vale. It had taken Sandor some time to assimilate to the new environment, the thinner air atop the castle was particularly challenging. The boys showed no care at all and now it seemed very normal to even him.

They’d left Winterfell almost a month ago now. And Sandor could hardly believe it himself, but his limp had become less severe. He knew his leg would never be back to the way it was and before Glenn’s instructions he was certain it would never improve. But damn him for being so stubborn, the rigorous and sometimes painful stretches and exercises had improved his limp notably in the past weeks. Just last week the boys had him so tuckered out that he forgot his routine before he fell asleep but paid for it the next day. He knew he would never forget his nightly routine again.

-

“Its not very often I see you out here.”

Sigrin shrugged in the center of the small godswood of the Eyrie, “It’s not the same here. It’s too quiet.”

Sigrin was right about it being different than Winterfell’s godswood. The ground was so hard and rocky that there wasn’t even a heart tree to mention. _But quiet?_ The courtyard was so small and open he could practically hear the footsteps of anyone walking by echoing off of the stone.

The only object of note in the courtyard was the statue of a woman weeping, broken into pieces along the stony ground. Sandor knew that the statue was modeled after some woman and a tragedy of sorts that had befallen her. He knew someone had mentioned her name to him in the last weeks. But he didn’t care to wrack his brain trying to remember. He thought of another woman as he looked at the face of the statue; a woman with sad eyes and face made of stone. Sandor had tried his best not to think on her during the last few weeks. The boys kept him busy enough during the day. It was at night that thoughts of her entered his mind. When he was alone in his bed and the only sound he could hear was the ceaseless wind blowing outside the windows of the high castle and the shattering words of Myranda Royce roiling through his mind.

Sandor looked at the boy next to him pushing around pebbles with his feet. Perhaps he could write her a letter, just to notify her on how the boys had been fairing in the past few weeks. As he left the yard in search of Maester Coleman he realized that he probably should have sent her a raven weeks ago, even when they first arrived. He turned over things he should say in his mind. Would she care to know how proud Edmund was that he bested his brother in the training yard last week? Would she want to know about how Sigrin avoided some areas of the castle as if they were the plague? He had a fleeting thought of asking her about what Lady Myranda had said, but ultimately decided against it. _Best keep it about the boys._

When Sandor made it to the maester and told him his plan, he immediately regretted his decision. 

Coleman looked at him with a puzzled expression. “I have maintained correspondence with Lady Sansa since the day you arrived.”

Sandor felt his face harden. “Have you?”

“I have,” Coleman said simply as he shuffled through an abundance of parchment on his desk, “She knows they’re doing quite well.”

Sandor nodded, “Good.” He turned on his heel to leave.

“My apologies Clegane. I did not, in fact, mean that you _shouldn’t_ send her a raven.”

Sandor waved him away, “Best forget it.”

“Lady Sansa _has_ enquired about you on occasion. Perhaps she was looking to hear from you as well?”

Sandor turned to face the man. 

“Ah,” Coleman went back to shuffling around his desk until he procured a clean looking roll of parchment, quill and ink. Sandor walked to the desk, took the quill awkwardly in his hand and bent over the desk to begin writing.

 _Lady Sansa,_ he started. 

He looked up, not sure what exactly he should say and found the maester to be watching him as intently as he watched Edmund practicing with his letters. The maester, seeming to remember himself under Sandor’s gaze, gave a little start and turned toward his mess of a desk once more.

Sandor looked at the two words he had written. No wonder Coleman was so intrigued. His own handwriting was no better than the seven year old’s.

He pushed the useless thought away and focused on what he should write. If she had been hearing everything from Coleman, there truly was no use to him writing her, but there he was, quill in hand, her name written awkwardly on the page. 

There were a thousand questions he had for Sansa almost as soon as he arrived in the Vale. Questions put into his mind by Mya Stone, and even more by Myranda Royce. Questions Sandor knew he would never gather up the nerve to ask Sansa, especially through a raven.

Thankfully, the parchment was small; he knew it needed to be kept simple.

 

_Lady Stark,_

 

_I thought you may want to know that the boys seem to be doing well. Edmund is the same as always. Sigrin has been more changeable than I’ve seen him at home, but still well enough._

 

He broke from his pride and added a line at the end.

 

_You were right by the way. Glenn’s advice seems to be working._

 

He signed the parchment, rolled it up, and handed it over to Coleman before he could change his mind.

Over the next few days, Sandor grew to regret the letter and had images in his mind of the raven which carried it being shot down by some happy accident. _What was the point? Did you expect a reply?_ Sandor knew she would have more important matters on her mind at Winterfell without his useless letter wasting her time. 

He was shocked and admittedly a bit relieved when Coleman handed him a reply almost a whole week later.

 

 _Clegane,_ she wrote,

_Thank you for your letter. I am glad the boys are well. Sigrin’s changing moods are to be expected. Thank you for being patient with him as always._

_As for your last sentiment, I’ll accept it as an apology. I look forward to seeing the improvement for myself when all of you return home._

 

Sandor felt his face warm. _What apology was that?_ He hadn’t meant it as an apology. Had he?

He could practically feel her smirking at him through the page.

He thought of writing her once more, if only to receive another from her, but he couldn’t come up with a single word to respond. So he left it at that.

-

Sandor’s days in the Vale were still much of the same as they were in Winterfell. Bringing the boys to Maester Coleman for their lessons, watching over them at play, as they trained. Never too far from them was the young Lord of the Eyrie who was thoroughly enjoying their company. From what he remembered of Robert Arryn, he had been a weak and sickly thing, still clung on to his mother’s breast when most boys were playing at war. That could be seen in the man he had become. Thin, gangly and pale to be sure; but he was tall, seemingly strong enough, and alive for one. 

Above all, Robert Arryn seemed to take his title with pride and most of all, severity. Much like Rickon in a way, although physically they could be no more different. Rickon was hardened in the wilderness of the North at such a young age. He grew up quickly and harshly. The opposite was obvious in the Lord of the Vale.

The young lord was not the only new face to get used to during his stay.

Because they first arrived in the Vale so late at night, Sandor, the boys and their small party spent the night of their arrival at the Gates of the Moon. It was there he met Mya Stone and Lady Myranda Royce for the first time. 

Almost every moment, as they got closer and closer to their destination, Sandor’s thoughts were wrapped around the fact that the last time the boys saw this place, their father was alive and well. He wondered if they would get upset when they saw where they all used to live together as a whole family. More than anything he wondered who would be able to help him if either of the boys became upset enough to cry.

But as soon as they were through the bloody gate, it was clear that Edmund and Sigrin had other matters on their minds.

“Mya!” The boys cried in unison as they walked through the yard. Sandor had never seen Sigrin so excited about anything. They ran to the figure Sandor initially thought to be a man, but who he could now see was indeed a woman. The woman dropped the rope she was holding and knelt to their level. 

After greeting the boys and giving both of them a tight squeeze, she rested on her heels, a wide smile spread on her attractive face. “So tell me, how is your mother?”

Edmund spoke first, “She looks like a tic that’s about to pop!”

Sandor would have swiped the back of the boy’s head if he was standing any closer.

“That’s no way to speak about your mother,” he let out. _Even if it was half true._

“You must be Sandor Clegane,”  The woman stood up to meet Sandor’s eye. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” _What is that supposed to mean._ “I’m Mya Stone,” she went on, “I’ll be leading you all up to Sky tomorrow morning.”

“Mya is mother’s very best friend, too,” Sigrin announced happily.

Mya winked at the boy, “Don’t let Lady Myranda hear you say that.”

Sigrin laughed as the woman ruffled his hair.

“Mother says hello,” Sigrin told Mya, “Ser Lothor too!”

“Brune, hmm? How is the old dog?”

It was a strange thing to hear Sigrin laugh and speak with someone so freely. It was an all new side to the boy that Sandor was pleased to see.

Eventually Mya saw them into the castle, the Gates of the Moon. All Sandor was looking forward to a warm meal that Edmund didn’t insist on helping to cook and a night’s sleep without rocks digging into his back.

But by the end of their night, Sandor found himself thankful to get away from the gaze of Lady Myranda Royce.

Sandor was used to people staring at the scars on his face, with intrigue, in revulsion, but never like this. The Royce woman’s fascinated gaze was inescapable for the entire evening. Sandor never found himself in favor of heights, but he was looking forward to the steep climb up to the castle in the morning, if only to never have to be in the same room with the woman again.

But much to his dismay, as they set off for their climb at first light, Myranda Royce trekked right along with them.

“Of course I am coming with you!” she exclaimed to Sigrin’s question, “If you think I am going to miss a minute of my favorite boys’ visit, you are sorely mistaken!” 

Every day, every evening, Myranda Royce was there, watching him. She kept her distance, but there was only so much he could take. Sandor had taken to holing up in his room while the boys were at their lessons in the first few days, but that only gave him a brief respite. It wasn’t until they were well settled in Sky, almost a week, that she finally came to speak to him. He was sitting in the hall with the rest of the household just trying to eat his evening meal. Then she came along, two goblets in her hands and sat across the table from him.

“For you, Ser Sandor,” She pushed the cup toward him. 

He looked at her, “I’m not a knight.”

Her small mouth turned into a smirk, “All the same, I’ve poured you a cup of wine. Dornish Red from my own private stores. It is the very least you could do, when offered something by a lady, to be polite and take a taste.”

Sandor tried not to read anything more into her strange choice of words, but he wanted her to be gone and figured the only way to make that happen would be to do what she asked. 

He grabbed the goblet and took a long sip, his cold face never wavering, even though it was the most perfect thing he’d tasted since leaving King’s Landing.

“So, tell me,” Myranda began, “how does our lady fair?”

“Lady Sansa?” Sandor mentally slapped himself. _Of course Sansa. Who else could she be asking about, you fool._

The woman only smiled and nodded, “The very one.”

Sandor shrugged, “Well enough, I suppose.”

Myranda’s smile became crooked, “You _suppose_.”

He felt his eyes narrow, “As far as I know, she is healthy enough.”

The woman narrowed her eyes even further. “ _As far as you know…_ ” she repeated skeptically. 

Sandor didn’t respond. Lady Myranda clearly had something she wanted to discuss. As far as Sandor was concerned, she could bloody well get on with it and stop tip toeing around the matter, or else she could go and bugger off.

The woman placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward toward him; her goblet of wine delicately purchased between her thumb and forefinger. It was a pose that struck him so undeniably like Cersei Lannister is almost gave him a chill.

“Come come, Clegane. Give me some credit,” she hummed, “I know you’re not just serving as a glorified wet nurse,” the woman winked. She _winked_. “Sansa has another use for you, doesn’t she?”

Sandor said nothing. But his silence gave her the answer she wanted.

“I knew it,” The woman sat back and shook her head, “Sansa Stark. Didn’t know she had it in her.” She laughed out loud and a few heads turned their way. She was drunk. “Oh don’t look at me like that, man. There is no denying it, is there?”

Sandor’s nostrils flared as he ground out, “How do you-“ and then he realized, “she told you?”

The woman scoffed, “Of course she didn’t tell me. Sansa’s never been one to be so open. Although, if I had the Hound in my bed there is now way I would be able to keep quiet.” Sandor barely held back a frustrated growl. The conversation was already exhausting. And he had a feeling it had only just begun.

“Oh, I know everything there is to know about Sansa Stark,” she continued, “Things she doesn’t even tell her little sister. Things she might not even know herself.” She took a deep sip of her wine to let the dramatic line sink in. “Mmm,” she seemed to think. “Though your appearance at Winterfell may have been mentioned in a letter a while back. I knew it was only a matter of time before she wound up in your bed.”

Sandor felt his eyes narrow, “Why?”

“Well first, because I told her thats what she should do.”

“You…what?” Sandor didn’t understand, “The woman’s husband had just died.”

Myranda waved away the fact with her hand. “Women have needs and desires just as men do. And any man who doesn’t see that as truth has obviously never pleasured a woman in his life.” She raised her eyebrow in a question.

Sandor didn’t respond to her quip. He knew that was why Sansa came to him. Though her words were clipped and brief, he and Sansa had spoken specifically about that, in fact.

“At the beginning, after Littlefinger died,” Myranda went on, “she sent a few letters a week. She’s sending less letters now. I can only assume things are getting easier for her some how.”

“Easier?”

“It’s merely my assumption.”

Sandor shook his head, “And why are you telling me this?”

She looked around the room, “Do you see another one of Sansa Stark’s lovers around?”

 _Lovers?_ He’d never considered himself such a term. “What are you saying?”

“What do you think I am saying. Months ago, I wasn’t truly convinced that Sansa would make it through her husband’s death. Now, I am saying it seems as though she is handling things quite well.”

“And what does this have to do with me?”

“Hmm…” she pursed her small lips and put her hand on her chin mockingly, “let me think. In the weeks after Petyr Baelish’s death I thought our good lady was losing her ever-loving mind. She was paranoid, she didn’t sleep, she couldn’t sleep, she didn’t know what was real and what was a nightmare. A month later, in limps a veritable ghost from her past, the bloody Hound. The only man that girl has ever spoken about in her ten years of friendship with me. Not her father. Not her brothers. Not the imp. Not even King Joffrey. But she mentioned the Hound.” She let out a laugh at her words and spoke more harshly now, “ _Mentioned_. Listen to me, how ridiculous.” She went on to imitate the voice of a young girl, _“‘Sandor Clegane wasn’t the monster everyone thought he was, they just didn’t understand.’ I’ve never kissed anyone before Petyr. Although, I was kissed, once, by the Hound.’ ‘Sandor Clegane was kind to me, in his own way yes, but he looked out for me all the same.’”_ Her voice was her own again, “So yes, Sandor Clegane, I think you’re showing up into Sansa Stark’s life after a ten year absence may have had the slightest affect on her.”

She lifted her goblet and downed the rest of her wine. Sandor sat there, frozen, but followed her lead until his cup was drained as well.   
When she spoke again, Sandor only half heard her, “All I know is that to me, at least, Sansa seems more accepting, more settled in the life she’s wound up in. For all I know, her improvement and your arrival at Winterfell is all a happy coincidence.” She scrunched her nose, “But that’s not very fun, is it now?”

Sandor couldn’t even begin to wrap is head around what he was just told. So with most things he couldn’t or didn’t want to understand, he pushed it to the very bottom on his mind. Or at least he tried. Still, there were times that he just couldn’t stop hearing Myranda’s voice in his head. _She thought about me when she was just a girl? Defended my name? She thinks I_ kissed _her_? It made him uneasy. It make his stomach feel as tight as a noose. Sansa Stark did seem like a bundle of nerves; like the smallest push could very well send her over the edge. But could she really have made up these delusions in her head as a child? Looking back on their shared time in King’s Landing, Sandor remembered nothing but his cruelty toward her. He hated himself for it. So how could she remember any of it differently?

And besides that, what else did she share with Myranda Royce in her letters?

_Does Myranda know that she won’t allow me to touch her? Does Sansa share that in her letters?_

Sandor knew that Sansa Stark didn’t owe him anything. If she needed to ride him day in and day out he wouldn’t complain. 

He shouldn’t, but try as he might, there was only so much he could hold back when he was with her. He wondered if that would change, knowing what he did now about what was going on in her head. He wondered if she would let it change, or if she would stop their arrangement all together if she found out what he knew. But if this Myranda seemed to think that life for Sansa is getting easier, perhaps she was right. Perhaps it wasn’t just a coincidence afterall.

Sandor didn’t sleep very much during the last few nights of their stay in the Vale. He couldn’t stop thinking about how things would change upon seeing her again, knowing what he now knew. He was alone on their last night, as he always was, but his head was filled with thoughts of her as Lady Myranda’s Dornish wine pumped slowly through his blood. He thought it was a dream when he heard the knock on the door. He thought it was her, Sansa, coming to him once again. He got up out of his cold bed, and walked over to the door.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when he opened it. Sansa, of course, was not there. She was at Winterfell. And he was in the Eyrie.

“What’s the matter, Clegane?” Myranda stepped past him and into the room, “who were you expecting?”

Sandor cleared his throat, “Not you.”

Myranda hummed. She was wearing a nightshift. Nothing more. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

She walked toward him and placed a hand on his chest. On his skin. He was too warm with wine to realize he was only half dressed. “What are you doing?” He ground out.

“I only want to see what all the fuss is about.” She stepped closer, he felt her warmth pressed up against his body. His fists clenched at his sides.

“Don’t worry. I don’t bite,” she purred, “unless, of course, you’d prefer that sort of thing.”

Sandor let out a bit of a laugh and reached up to grab her wrists in his hands. “Thank you for the stimulating company, Lady Royce,” he pushed her away gently and took a step back, “Goodnight.”

She didn’t look defeated, merely amused. “Wrapped around her little finger, aren’t you?”

Moments later, when Sandor took himself in hand, it wasn’t the buxom, wanton woman who had just been at his door in his mind. It was the little bird. He wondered if her hair had grown longer in his absence. He imagined how she might let him touch her when he arrived home. Even later into his sleepless evening, Sandor realized something absurd. He’d sent a woman away. He’d send a beautiful woman who wanted to sleep with him _away_. He laughed to himself as he stared up into the darkness. _There’s always a first for everything._

He supposed the Royce woman was right. He _was_ wrapped around Sansa’s finger. He was hers to do with what she will. And he couldn’t say the thought bothered him in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Thank you for reading. Thank you for not abandoning this story, even though it seems like I have. I promise you I haven't. I think about it every day. Every. Day. I just haven't been motivated to sit down and actually write. I've had pieces of this written for a very long time. it was only today that I made myself get it done.
> 
> You see, for a few months I was working 3 jobs. Teaching, working at the beach and at a restaurant. Its summer, so I'm down to two just now and more able to catch up with the people and things I love.
> 
> I will be leaving for a very delayed honeymoon in two weeks, London, Paris, Ireland's west coast, and Dublin in ten days. (We're crazy, I know) When I get back in August, I hope to have more to give you guys.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and as always, your comments are well appreciated.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know what happened, but uh, here's another one.
> 
> The next part of this is going to be out soonish I hope, maybe even before my trip if I can manage it! Half of it is ready, and its a bit unnerving, but shit may well hit the fan.
> 
> Enjoy this little happy-ish bit. Much more to come!

They say the journey home always goes by more quickly than the journey away. Or so he had heard in his past life from fellow soldiers upon returning from battle. It was a notion that Sandor had never experienced for himself. These men must have had wives, children to see upon their return. All Sandor ever had to look forward to was an empty bed, a quick visit to a brothel and drowning in a cask of Dornish Red. 

But he supposed, now, he understood what they had meant. While the return journey from The Vale to Winterfell was in fact almost two whole days shorter, Sandor still felt like it was not quick enough. 

More often than not, Sigrin was the first one awake in the cool mornings, readying his pony for the day’s long ride. Each day, Sandor asked the boys if they needed a rest and almost every time, they declined. There was no hiding it. They were all eager to get home.

-

“Do you think she’ll be waiting for us in the yard?” Edmund asked excitedly the moment the great walls of Winterfell appeared in the distance.

“Only one way to find out,” Sigrin suggested.

Sandor could see the silent challenge pass between the two boys and cut them off before they could prepare themselves for a race.

“I’ve somehow kept you lot alive for the last two months. You’re not going to go on and break your necks in the moment before I deliver you back to your mother, are you now?”

As much as Sandor, and Stranger, were itching for a good gallop, he knew it to be a terrible idea. Sigrin might be able to handle himself alright, but that little one would ruin it all for them, he was sure. He moved in front of the ponies and set an easy pace for the rest of the way, the walls of the castle growing closer, slowly, but steadily.

 _Would she be there_ , he wondered, feeling like a fool for doing so. Ever since they left the Vale, Sandor was not able to think on anything other than her. There was so much about that woman that he was sure he would never understand - unless, of course, he somehow finally gathered up the courage to ask her. What did she really remember about their shared time in King’s Landing? How was her memory of events so different than his? Why did she think and speak so well of him to Myranda Royce? And why, in all the seven hells, did she tell the Royce woman that he had _kissed_ her?

He wanted to know the truth. What she really thought of him. Why she really chose to come to him. And if she had thought so well of him when she was a child, why was she still unable to give herself to him, to _be_ herself with him now? He wanted to know. He _needed_ to know. 

The questions he had tried so unsuccessfully to push down for over half a year were no longer just simmering in the back of his mind. With the words of Myranda Royce, with Sansa’s absence, the questions were bursting forth, so much so that he could barely hold his tongue out of frustration of their being unanswered.

He’d thought about it over the last days. He knew that he was hers to do with what she will. He had accepted that. He wouldn’t - couldn’t deny her, no matter what the request. But he was prepared. He was ready As soon as they were alone, in whatever capacity that may be, Sandor would ask her.

-

She wasn’t there, it turned out, much to the boys’ dismay and Sandor’s quiet relief. It had quickly become difficult for him to swallow and Stranger’s reins felt heavy in his damp hands as they walked through the gates of Winterfell. Once they were off their horses and gathering their belongings though, she had appeared, almost out of thin air.

The boys dropped what ever they had been holding in their little arms and ran headlong toward their mother. She bent, slowly, to give each of them a tight hug. Whatever words passed between Sansa and her eldest child, Sandor did not quite catch as he busied himself with Stranger, his heart pounding in his ears. But Edmund’s pronouncements of his favorite parts from his journey were loud enough for the whole of the North to hear.

When Sandor passed Stranger off to the one man that was half-able to work with him, he found himself walking - quite well, in fact - toward the group. 

He gave Brune, still ever-present at the side of his lady, a nod in greeting. The man returned the gesture. He truly was looking more miserable than usual. Sandor wondered if the surprise they’d brought along might actually cheer him up, based on what else Sandor had learned from Lady Myranda.

Sandor quickly turned his attention toward the woman at his feet. At the same moment, Sansa sent the boys away to wash up for a special feast she had prepared. 

Lothor went to help Sansa up, but she accepted Sandor’s hand - one he hadn’t even realized he had offered - instead. She steadied herself, stood up straight and looked him directly in the eye.

_Fuck._

He missed her. He _missed_ her. Gods he missed her so badly it had felt like a giant hole was eating away at his stomach for the near two months they were gone. He couldn’t make sense of what it was until then, finally seeing her there, standing right in front of him, her hand still in his. Gods he could have run to her just like her children had. He wanted to lift her into his arms and hold her close to him. He wanted to kiss her. _Bloody hells_ did he want to kiss her.

When he thought back on it all later, alone in his room at night, it was all Sandor could do not to tear out his own hair over his foolishness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sandor. What is he going to get himself into now?!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is my first warning in a while. Sandor is really excited to see Sansa again. A bit too excited but not harmful. So I've marked the section where you see how Sansa reacts to this with stars. If you're still wary of reading this chapter, I'll sum it up at the end for you.
> 
> Setting up some drama for the next chapter which will focus primarily on Sansa during the winter.

Her voice was quiet,“You must be tired from your journey.”

“Not quite,” he heard himself say.

From the corner of his eye, Sandor saw something flash across Brune’s face. The man seemed to sigh in silent acceptance. He knew. Of course he knew. But Sandor couldn’t bring himself to care.

Sandor washed the stink of the road off of himself before a painfully slow evening meal. He allowed himself to a cup of wine, but nothing more. From their brief exchange that afternoon, he knew she would come to him. She knew he wanted her to.

It wasn’t until she stood in his room, after having closed the door behind her, that he noticed; her hair _had_ grown longer just as he imagined. It fell freely past her shoulders now. And it was all he could do not to stride right over and reach out to touch her.

She spoke first, “It’s been a long while, hasn’t it?

“Two months.”

“A long time.” 

Sandor felt himself hum in agreement. 

She took a step closer, her eyes narrowed ever-so slightly, her face warm, “I waited, you know.”

Sandor swallowed, unable to clear the lump that appeared in his throat, “What for?”

“Another letter from you. It never came.”

Sandor knew there was something he should be saying to her. Was it a question he had? Something that had been on his mind?

He couldn’t remember. And he couldn’t care to remember. Not seeing her there. Like that. Ready for him.

It started as it usually had, but for some reason, perhaps their long time apart, it felt as if it was the first night with her all over again. It was only when she pulled his hands to grip into her hips astride him that he felt himself relax. 

He truly had missed her. But not only like this. Not only the feel of her moving against him, not in the scent of her. He missed her subtle smiles. The clear strong voice with which she spoke. How she trusted him with the most personal and private parts of her life. The presence she exuded whenever she entered a room, especially his own. He didn’t truly know how to process the thoughts ruminating about in his mind. All he knew was how fiercely he wanted more of this. More of her. 

Just as her eyes shut in concentration, just as she was about to let go, he sat up. In the second it took for her to gasp at his sudden movement, he had her on her back. He was gentle - he knew he was - but he was quick. He felt her legs wrap automatically around his hips and he burrowed his face into her neck, long and exposed for him. He’d never been one for kissing, but he just needed to taste her. To feel her skin under his own. And it was better than anything he could have imagined. Her skin was warm, covered in the salt of sweat, and it was overwhelmingly her, her, _her_.

His mouth moved to her collarbone, her shoulder, his hand following, moving the neckline of her cumbersome shift out of the way. 

She whimpered underneath him and it nearly sent him over the edge. Just one look and he would be there, he knew. His mouth moved up her neck once more, his teeth grazing her jaw.

***

It was strange, how even before he pulled away to look at her, he knew something wasn’t right. The way her face was turned from him was the first sign. But when he paused a moment to gauge what might be going on, he felt it. She had gone completely taught underneath him. Rigid with discomfort. He froze and lifted himself away. Between them, tight against her chest, Sansa held her hands, balled into fists so tight he thought the bone of her knuckles were going to pierce through her skin. It was the look on her face, though, that told him everything.

Her brow was knotted together so hard that the tips of her eyebrows nearly touched. Her teeth were gritted so hard against each other he was certain he would hear them crumble behind her lips. The worst of all was her eyes. They were closed. Shut tight. She looked like she was in pain.

It only took him a second to take all of this in. Before the next second was up, Sandor moved out and away from her, sitting up on his haunches. 

“Did I hurt you?”

She was shaking. 

A whirl of nausea spun in his stomach and he found himself unable to move. He watched as she gathered herself, her trembling hands unclenching and moving down her body to pull her shift down over her hips once more.

He couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t move. He just sat there, watching her, although all of a sudden it felt like doing so was an intrusion. She didn’t look at him. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stayed there for a moment, her back to him. He heard her sniff, once. And then she stood up slowly and faced him.

***

Her mask was back. Her voice drained of any inflection, any emotion, “This was a mistake.”

Sandor shook his head, kneeling there, helpless, “Did I hurt you?” Gods he would beat himself bloody if he had. 

But she shook her head. A brief wave of relief washed over him. But it was obvious something was still wrong.

He knew she didn’t want to be touched. But he thought… he didn’t know what he thought. _I_ didn’t _think, that’s the problem_. He’d broken their agreement. He’d broken her trust.

“I apologize for putting you in this position,” she told him, finally, before turning toward the door.

She was leaving. _No. Not yet. Not like this._ “Wait,” He got to the floor. By the time he found his breeches and pulled them up over his hips, she was already tying her robe around her waist.

“This was a mistake,” she said again, simply, tying the knot tight atop her belly. “From the very start.” She shook her head once more, not meeting his eye, “I never should have come to you.”

Sandor ignored the feeling of his lungs being crushed inside of him. “I thought…the way it was going. The way you’ve seemed to change over the last months. I thought it was getting… better.”

She looked up at him then, genuinely confused. “Getting better? _What_ is getting better?”

He thought of the look on Myranda’s face when she told him about Sansa. He wasn’t supposed to know the things he did. Of how she was before he came around.

He swallowed, “The way you don’t want to be touched.” It felt so strange saying it out loud. A truth they both knew, but never once spoke about. “I thought it was getting easier for you, being with me.”

Sansa let out a small sigh. She just looked so tired. Her arms hung limply from her side as she turned from him. Sandor reached forward and caught her hand in his. She stopped at the door. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t react as he held her hand, cold and still, in his own.

“Sansa,” He heard himself say, “I’m sorry.”

She turned to him her eyes wide.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out.

He moved to take a step closer, but her hand slipped from his as she turned away from him for the last time. He didn’t move to follow her out the door as she closed it behind her once more.

The pain of the door against his fist wasn’t enough. Not the first, second, or third time his knuckles collided against the solid wood. He knew he should probably leave - leave Winterfell, leave the gods-forsaken seven kingdoms and never return - but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He couldn’t even bring himself to move from the spot where she left him. He stood there alone, his head against the cold stone wall, thinking.

He had to see her. He didn’t know what would happen when he did. Would he resign? Would he be able to? Would she make him? Or would he fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness?

He would survive if she never came to his bed again. He just wasn’t sure how easy it was going to be if she never wanted to see his ugly face again.

In the swirl of rage, mortification and shame that rushed through his mind for the remainder of the night, a small, insignificant thought crept in. He’d never said her name before. Not out loud. And definitely not to her.

Perhaps it didn’t help, the way he hoped apologizing would have. Perhaps that was why she turned and looked at him in such horror. Perhaps using her first name was the final straw. He pushed the limits of what she offered him. He’d gotten too comfortable. Things had changed for him somehow when he was away, but not for her. He was stupid. He was foolish to think she would want him in the way he wanted her. That she felt about him the way he knew know he felt about her. He stepped far over the clear bold line she had set in between them. She gave what she could give him, and still it wasn’t enough. 

With the fourth and final hit against the door, he heard something crack inside of his hand. And it wasn’t even close to what he deserved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, Sandor got a bit excited when Sansa came to see him again. Didn't hurt her, but he stepped over the boundaries she had set between them.
> 
> She left him without a word and calmly ended their arrangement. 
> 
> Sandor is disgusted with himself and wants to set it right in the morning.
> 
> Anyhoo, if you read, let me know what you think! More soon hopefully - got a lot to work out with some old Sansa POV I've had sitting around.


End file.
